Book of Shadows
by Harmony Bites
Summary: As Severus Snape knows, and Hermione will learn, magic always has a price. HGSS eventually. WIP AU after Deathly Hallows.
1. Chapter One The Dream Catcher

Disclaimer: © 2005 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur nonprofit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to **Djinn** for her beta!

**CHAPTER ONE**

**The Dream Catcher**

o0o

It was nearing dawn when Severus Snape returned to what passed for home, shivering in his wet robes and grinding his teeth together to keep them from chattering. Slamming his body into the door to shut it against the rain, he slid down to the floor, clasping his bent knees and resting his head on his arms, letting his eyelids drift closed.

He felt too weary even to cast a simple Drying or Warming Charm after a meeting of the Order followed by a summons from the Dark Lord. He was afraid he'd fall asleep as well if he got too comfortable, and after what he'd seen tonight: a bridge broken like a stick over a knee; a dozen cars swallowed by black water so quickly there wasn't even time for the Muggles to scream—red eyes glinting at him in triumph.

It's not like he ever could get warm anymore, anyway—not down to his feet and hands—let alone in this uncommonly chilly July. Not for years, now.

A rustling behind him reminded him this was no longer a refuge where he could afford to show any weakness—if it ever had been. He swung himself up and stomped his foot on a fast-retreating tail, producing a satisfying squeak.

"I smell a rat."

Before his eyes the mangy grey rodent morphed into an equally unimposing man with a right hand that gleamed silver. The Dark Lord's right hand man assigned to "assist" him: Peter Pettigrew. Pinned to the floor by Snape's foot on his coattails, Pettigrew rubbed his backside and warily squinted up at him.

"You're such a sweet sight to come home to," Snape said. He ground his foot into the dingy cloth of Pettigrew's blazer before lifting it away. "Do make yourself useful and get me some tea, Wormtail, or I'll skin you and transfigure you into a tea cosy."

"You wouldn't dare…"

"Try me," Snape said softly, pointing at the man with his wand.

His mouth quirked upwards as he saw Pettigrew scuttle backwards towards the kitchen, never daring to turn his back.

Snape dragged himself past the sitting room into his study and suppressed a sigh as he sagged into the shabby but well-padded chair by his desk. Anger had lent him strength, but as always its aftermath left him with more energy spent than he'd gained. His gaze settled on the headline of yesterday's _Daily Prophet_: "Emmeline Vance Slain by Death Eaters."

He savagely swept the paper off his desk and didn't begrudge the energy it took to kick it across the room. Although kicking Pettigrew across the room—even better, across the ocean—would have been so much more gratifying.

"Professor Snape!"

At the sound, Snape turned towards the fireplace to see Madam Pomfrey's head peering at him out of his hearth. Damn. He had forgotten to take himself off the Floo Network. They couldn't afford another screw-up like what happened with Vance.

"I'm not alone—"

"Severus, it's the Headmaster! His finger is burned black. I can't… it… won't heal... it's spreading!"

There was little that Poppy Pomfrey couldn't heal—and very little that could fluster her. Snape ran out of the house and into the shack that served as his home laboratory. He leaned against the shelves as he caught his breath, moving his gaze across his private stores of potions, trying to decide what he should bring with him. He quickly dosed himself with a long swallow of Pepperup Potion, not caring he'd pay later for the temporary boost in energy and alertness.

His gaze fell upon another vial whose contents shone a molten gold. It was a recent gift sent to him from Durmstrang's new Headmaster, who had been trying to woo him from Hogwarts. Liquid luck. He didn't make a habit of brewing, let alone taking, _Felix Felicis_. Snape never forgot all magic had its price, and he suspected every hour the potion produced of good luck was drawn against a lifetime account with compound interest. He hesitated, then grabbed the vial and unstoppered it. He measured a scant teaspoon and drank it down, making a moue of disgust at the cloying, honeyed taste.

Ingesting it himself wouldn't count against Dumbledore's store of luck, and Snape could use some in the next few hours to save the Headmaster. He was willing to draw upon his own dwindling account for that. Because if this was what he feared it could be… Trusting the intuitions flowing through him from the potion, he grabbed several vials and on impulse took his old potions text from his school days.

Snape cursed under his breath when he saw he had left the door to his study open—he saw a filled teacup at his desk. He wasn't sure where Pettigrew might have gone to and that made his heart pound even faster. He hoped Poppy had had enough sense to duck her head out of the fireplace when rat man had come in. He kicked the door closed, locked it with a charm, and warded the room for good measure before flinging green powder into the hearth and calling out, "Hogwarts hospital wing."

Fawkes was perched by Dumbledore's side, the phoenix's tears falling onto the old man's right hand. When Snape saw the hand, he had to swallow hard to keep from retching. The middle finger was charred black. On it was a heavy, gold ring with a large, cracked black stone, and radiating from the finger were streaks of bright red. The rest of the hand was covered with blisters. He'd seen this before—an entire arm black to the shoulder clutching a broken locket. His nose detected a lingering scent of ozone.

"What have you tried?" he asked Poppy.

He nodded his head as Poppy listed a mix of magical charms and potions and Muggle medicines. She said that Dumbledore had told her not to touch the ring before he passed out—Snape heaved a sigh of relief she had obeyed. He noted the blue tinge to the lips and fingernails, the pale skin clammy to the touch.

"Leave him to me for a while," Snape said.

"What if—"

"Go! He won't speak freely with you here."

_And I don't want you watching me inflicting pain._ He felt her trail her hand across his back in passing, in tacit support of what he had to do, and heard her walk briskly away.

_"Enervate."_

His mouth set in a thin line as the body on the bed twitched and the blue eyes snapped open, Dumbledore's gaze on him bright with accusation for bringing him back to hellish pain. _Welcome to my world._

"The ring's cursed, that's why not even Fawkes can heal you and why you told Poppy not to touch it," Snape said.

"Bloody brilliant statement of the obvious. Did you wake me for that or just to enjoy my company?" Dumbledore said.

Snape felt his mouth twist in a sour smile. Intense pain was like liquor. Masks slipped. _In crucio veritas._ It made Snape act less nasty. He couldn't put forth the effort. It made Dumbledore act less than nice.

The old man lifted his head with an effort, then put it back down with a sigh. "I don't know what has gotten into me. Forgive me, my boy."

"Do you know what curse the Dark Lord put on the Horcrux?"

Dumbledore went even paler, lips drawn into a grimace.

Snape waved at him in exasperation. "Oh, come, I doubt even the Dark Lord has the breadth of my knowledge of the Dark Arts—his interests are… narrower. I know what a Horcrux is, I know his ambitions, and I know that you and your pigheaded, glory-hound arrogance would cause you to go out alone seeking the Dark Lord's hedge on immortality. I'm just surprised you didn't send Potter to do it or at least take him with you. Now, again, do you know what curse he used?"

Dumbledore licked his lips repeatedly. Snape couldn't remember him ever before giving such clear expression of agitation. Snape let the silence build, hoping it would provoke Dumbledore to fill it.

"Hedges."

"What?"

"More than one Horcrux out there, I think."

"That's insane." _But then we're talking about a madman._ Snape pushed away all the thoughts that crowded in on that revelation. They didn't have the time for him to process the implications.

"We need to get Bill Weasley in here," Snape said.

"No."

"He's an expert Curse-Breaker—the best." _And wouldn't he be shocked to hear me admit that?_ "I can't begin to heal this until we get that ring off."

Dumbledore tried to grip Snape's arm with his bad hand, only to drop it, hissing softly in pain.

"This can't go further than the two of us."

"And eventually Harry Potter, who'll share it with Miss Granger and Ronald Weasley, followed by Hagrid, then—"

"I believe Tom's diary was one Horcrux. Harry successfully destroyed that without injury. The curse on this one might be of different origin. This ring once belonged to Salazar Slytherin."

"Ah." Snape smoothed his voice down to a silken thread. "Rest now, Albus, rest. _Dormeo_." He passed a hand over Dumbledore's face and sighed to see the lines of tension and pain ease with the movement.

Ah, the sleep of the righteous and pure. He shook his head at wasting time in such idle thoughts.

Poppy stopped him at the threshold to the room. "Where are you going?"

"To do what I do best—brew a potion."

"The Headmaster doesn't have the hours that would take."

"I'm going to use a Time Turner. I couldn't afford to linger around here otherwise, and let my guest wonder what happened to me."

Supposedly, all the Time Turners had been destroyed at the Ministry last month, but he knew Dumbledore had held some back and put them in the Room of Requirement.

The Ministry forbade what he was about to do and would give him a one-way ticket to Azkaban if they ever found out. Not that he believed he'd escape that fate long if Dumbledore died. But what made magic Dark was its intent—and his intent was to heal. Of course there was the little matter of the djinn...

It didn't matter. He didn't have the luxury of the time or a qualified helper to research another solution to old magic that might go back to a founder—that was still potent enough to kill after being dormant for a millennium.

The base healing potion and the offering for the evocation ordinarily would need more blood than he could give himself, but he intended to ingest another potion that would make it just possible, even if it would drain him and his magic dangerously low.

By the time he reached the dungeons after retrieving the Time Turner, the effects of the Pepperup Potion were beginning to wear off. Given the luxury of a Time Turner, he was tempted to just try sleep, but living twice in the same time period took a toll on his no longer youthful body, and he doubted that would be restful. He drank down more Pepperup Potion and chased it with some Strengthening Potion, imagining Poppy's horrified expression if she knew. When he finally crashed, it would be spectacular.

He set out the vial of Blood-Replenishing Potion and went to work, feeling himself calm with the familiar routine of chopping herbs, crushing bicorn horn and fairy wings into a powder, and tossing item after item into the bubbling cauldron and stirring.

Hours later, his muscles were cramping and he had a monstrously throbbing headache, but he was ready to add the last ingredient. He felt a strange fascination as he cut his left wrist with a silver blade and watched the blood well up. He dangled his hand over the cauldron, allowing the blood drip inside—hopefully his blood was nothing a Dark Mark could pollute—and waited for the mixture to turn a deep purple. He felt a great peace settle over him as the blood flowed out of him, then a floating euphoria. So this is what it would be like? To let go?

He slumped over the cauldron and jerked himself upright, forcing himself to drink down the foul-tasting replenishing potion without gagging. He let more of his blood fill a small saucer, then bound the wound, which would have to be allowed to heal naturally.

Next, he drew a six-sided figure with a flick of his wand, placing the vial of purple liquid and saucer of blood in the centre. Then he drew a circle two feet away and stepped within. He closed his eyes, breathing in through his nostrils and out through his mouth, waiting for the stillness that told him he had ground and centred. He knew others who would make much more elaborate preparations for such dangerous ceremonial magic, but this was really all about focusing the will. As he uttered the invocation to the Lord and Lady, the Founders, the Quarters, and Watchtowers for protection against what he'd be summoning, he felt a buzzing sensation in his hands and running up his arms.

"Hear me, o djinn, Lokial, I conjure thee to appear in the hexagram forthwith. Come peaceably and in fair shape."

A spinning column of smoke appeared before him, forming into a dumpy figure of a woman in a torn and stained beige housecoat, grey unwashed hair hanging in a curtain about her long, pallid face. He could see bruising behind the clumsily-applied makeup on his mother's face. The image of her face, he corrected mentally.

"What do you want, dear boy?"

He swallowed convulsively. _For you to not wear my dead mother's form, to begin with._ But he didn't say that out loud. His luck—the liquid kind anyway—had long run out. He'd prepared that concoction at too dear a cost to give such a foolish answer, needed the entity's cooperation to complete the potion too badly. Spirits took answers literally when convenient. He had pre-formed his command carefully. "I charge thee to infuse the vial to produce the Draught of Blessing and Surcease."

The figure shifted. Now before him was a young woman with shining, dark red hair and glinting, green eyes in a white, floral-print sundress. His breath hitched as she stretched languidly before him, spreading her arms overhead and arching her back. _Please, not her._

"What would you give, Love?" the image of lost love asked, the voice a sultry caress that sent shudders through him. "Hmm? The usual? Your soul, life, happiness, true love, youth, beauty, all your worldly goods?"

He shrugged and swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth enough to answer. His voice came out rawer than he'd have liked. "Etcetera, etcetera—the only problem being that I've either already given the above away or they're rubbish."

"How about your integrity? Your honour? Your loyalty?"

He could feel his face tighten, a muscle twitch in his cheek.

"Haven't lost quite everything yet, have you?" the entity said softly in a new voice.

He started at the next shape it had taken. A girl with all-too-familiar cascades of bushy brown hair and soft, fawn-coloured eyes. All that was needed was to have her hand waving wildly to be called on.

"No matter," the figure of the girl said. It bent down and, as its hand touched the vial, the liquid foamed and luminesced. With a commanding wave of an arm, the djinn sent it flying to Snape's hand. "My gift."

"Gift?" He cringed. Worser and worser. "How about the standard first-born child?"

With a wicked smile and snap of fingers, the spirit vanished. _Dear Lord and Lady, I am so fucked._ He hadn't given the spirit license to depart, which meant it had never been under his control in the first place. He'd pay later for this, and he feared the cost would be more than he could bear.

He worried that travelling back in time might hurt the potion's efficacy, but he didn't have a choice. If he went directly to the infirmary only to find Dumbledore dead, the laws of time guaranteed he couldn't change a thing. He could only borrow time this way, not reverse the consequences. He twisted the Time Turner and felt the telling sensation of vertigo as he turned back time. He watched the hands on the classroom clock on the wall spin backwards.

He started running as soon as the Time Turner released him. He sped down the corridors, cursing the inability to Apparate in Hogwarts and the limited Floos on the network within. He flattened himself against a wall as he saw his earlier self swooping down past him with a swish of billowing black robes. _Merlin, I really do look like an overgrown bat._ Taking the last steps to the hospital wing two at a time, he sagged in relief when he saw Poppy's expression as she stood by Dumbledore's bed. So there was still a chance. He held out the vial to her. "I suggest injecting it."

Snape leaned against the wall and closed his eyes as Poppy worked over Dumbledore. His lids flew open at the ping of the ring as it dropped to the floor from the blackened finger. When he saw the redness disappearing from Dumbledore's wrist and forearm, he almost sobbed with relief. _Pathetic. I'm as bad as a house-elf._

But then he noted the hand remained a black, charred claw. A reprieve then, not a commutation. Some gift. Amputating the hand would not help in such a case, could be immediately fatal. But even if not a cure, stopping the progress of the curse gave them time, months and months of time, to work things out. Maybe a year.

Staggering away from Dumbledore's side, he flinched when he felt a hand at his elbow and an arm across his back holding him up. He felt exposed at the concern he saw in Poppy's eyes and looked away quickly. The matron was harder to fool than Dumbledore, even without Legilimency.

She was trying to draw him down to the nearest empty bed. "You must stay and rest here for a while."

He shrugged off her support—physical and otherwise. "That would be rude when I have company at home."

Undeterred, she traced the swollen circles under his eyes with a finger. He winced at even her feather-light touch.

"Then promise me you will sleep—and no more Dreamless Sleep Potion or Pepperup Potion."

"Not tonight." Then, taking in the bright light now streaming from the windows, he said, "Well, not today."

"Severus," she said sternly.

"I am not eleven years old, anymore."

He saw her face soften as if she was remembering when he was eleven, and that tore it. He curled his lip disdainfully. "Oh, for pity's sake, did you think I did this because I'm some kind of bloody hero seeking martyrdom? I only acted out of self-preservation. If the old man croaked, the entire Order would line up to stone me."

"And whose fault is that?" she said, her voice unbearably gentle.

_His. Mine. The Dark Lord's._ And with that happy thought, he forced himself to turn away and hold himself together long enough to Floo back to his house before Poppy hexed him into a sickbed. She'd done it before.

He was getting too old for this. An almost forty-year-old body didn't have the resources of twenty to fall back on. He wasn't a thrill jockey. He wasn't Gryffindor. (And it was alarming how hard it was to even summon the reflexive disdain at the thought—he was that tired). It occurred to him that Sirius would have probably loved this life, living on the edge, savouring playing the hero, and draining every bit of sympathy and female—and female—and female—and, occasionally, male—attention he could out of it. After a night like his, Sirius would go find someone to bed.

And yet, right now, all Snape wanted to do with a bed was collapse on it to sleep. With good dreams. Without waking up screaming. And that was as likely as lying on it with a desirable woman in his arms. He didn't need Arithmancy to calculate that likelihood in negative numbers.

He had the vague feeling he had forgotten something and was trying to focus his thoughts when he heard something fluttering against the window pane.

He opened the window and a small red-brown owl landed hard on his desk with a tremulous wail. He raised an eyebrow when he noted the bird's ear tufts. A screech owl. He unearthed a treat from the top desk drawer, and the bird dipped its beak daintily, picking the morsel from his hand.

"Now you, my friend, have come from far, far away. Asibika? Aradia's owl?"

The bird hooted agreement. Then, she promptly tucked her head in a wing and fell asleep right there.

Snape gently untied the scroll and small packet tied to the owl's leg and slid it out quietly so not to disturb the weary transatlantic traveller. Inside was a curious object that vaguely stirred a memory of something read in a book. Only a few millimetres across, a web of sinews dyed red stretched over a tear-drop-shaped frame of bent willow. Three black feathers hung from the strands.

As he had suspected, the scroll was from Professor Aradia Smith, Vice Principal of Salem Academy, in the States. She had been a classmate and fellow Slytherin, and periodically would write him to hold forth on how he should pull up roots and join her across the pond. She maintained that there wasn't any silly prejudice over there towards their House—that no one would care about his Death Eater past. He could start anew—like a snake shedding his skin, he supposed, but the notion held no attraction for him.

He couldn't ever articulate why to her, which was probably why Aradia never gave up, but he thought uprooted was exactly what he'd feel. He'd shrivel up and die. What little he loved, and all that he hated, was here in Britain. He imagined that if he told her that, she'd tell him to just bring some of his native soil with him like a vampire.

Surprisingly there was no passage this time mentioning how a new Defence Against the Dark Arts or Potions position had opened up at the Academy.

_Dear Severus,_

I hope this finds you well. The news from home just seems to get more awful with every week.

So she had to admit Britain was still home even after two decades in America? He filed that away for a suitably taunting reply.

_It seems like a nightmare that Tom Riddle is back again._

Aradia had to be the only witch or wizard in seven continents other than Albus Dumbledore who'd call the Dark Lord that.

_I know that it's asking you too much to come here even for a visit—for a respite—or for you to take care of yourself, or allow anyone else to, but I hope you'll accept the enclosed gift as my attempt to help just a little._

The Ojibwe wizards hold that a dream catcher will filter out bad dreams, which will stick in the web, while the hole in the middle will allow only good dreams to come through. If I can't convince you to change your reality, maybe at least I can send some sweet dreams your way.

Your friend, Aradia.

It stood to reason that the only old classmate that would call him friend (and possibly mean it) was an ocean away and hadn't seen him in decades. Even a few months before, he would have subjected the object to a thorough examination that would have put his and Flitwick's testing of Potter's mysteriously gifted Firebolt for hexes and jinxes to shame. He knew better to trust anyone, let alone someone who'd dare call him friend. Let alone anyone who so aptly filled his need without his asking, Seer and Divination teacher or no.

But matters had been spinning out of control for over a year now—ever since he'd returned to the Dark Lord on Dumbledore's behalf. Pettigrew's very presence in his house spoke of how little he was trusted by the Dark Lord or his minions even a year after he had returned, submitting several times to "Tom's" oh so clever ideas of amusement. Amusement that only began with playful bouts of Crucio. He wasn't trusted much more by the members of the Order—actually, less—and was even less well liked.

With the stress he was under, the lack of restful sleep, it was only a matter of time before he made a fatal mistake. Fatal to him, rather than the unfortunate Miss Vance. People who resorted to Dreamless Sleep Potion too often slowly went mad—people needed their dreams. Even those who thought they had long given up on them. His deteriorating condition was stripping from him any sense of self-preservation. With Pettigrew as a companion, he didn't even have this summer as a respite from the pressures at Hogwarts.

He'd take the risk and use the dream catcher. Anything for the chance for one night of peaceful sleep. Before he was tempted to conjure up a djinn again just to grant that wish.

So he hung up the dream catcher at the window near his bed, and, for once, he was so exhausted from all that had happened since he'd last gone to his bed that he was asleep almost as fast as his head hit the pillow.

He awoke the next morning filled with a sense of well-being and peace he hadn't felt for years. The kind that comes from a good sleep, not just exhausted unconsciousness. He brushed his fingers on the dream catcher above him in gratitude. Even if, in the long-term, the return of his hope of and for survival was cruel. He found himself smiling into the mirror (thank Merlin, not a chatty wizard one) for once in his life without a trace of a sneer or inward sarcastic rejoinder to his good spirits.

He tried hard to recall any of his dreams, but they seemed to have disappeared with the morning light—he must have slept right through the day and night. Closing his eyes, he was able to summon one lingering image. Its identity shocked him. He knew it made sense he'd still be processing all he'd experienced recently. The forms a djinn chose to appear was often, in and of itself, not without significance. Aradia would even say a portent.

Still. Not a face that he'd think would inspire "sweet dreams." Not from him. _I've obviously spent far too much time among those children if "Potter's brain trust" is invading my dreams._

He heard Pettigrew shuffling about in the next room and scowled. Pettigrew—whose lurking around was already responsible for a death—even if Snape had managed to take the credit with the Dark Lord and the blame among his peers in the Order.

Perhaps Miss Granger would allow him to borrow her cat? Maybe if he asked nicely? He snorted with more amusement than he thought he was capable of after the events of… just yesterday? If he was ever nice to Hermione Granger, she would probably drop dead of fright on the spot.

Snape fetched the robe from across the room with a flick of his wand and an unspoken _Accio_ and left to see if he could find a way to make Pettigrew miserable. His back felt so good—and his head so clear—from the long, uninterrupted sleep without nightmares that he couldn't even bring himself to brush away a spider that had made a home in the center of the dream catcher's web. Humming tunelessly—a happy song, for once—Snape closed the door and started his day. 

o0o

_**to be continued**_

A/N. This is my first attempt at a Harry Potter fanfic, so obviously, any feedback or corrections are appreciated.


	2. Chapter Two Grimoire

Disclaimer: © 2005 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur nonprofit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

My thanks to _**Djinn**_ and _**Bambu**_ for their betas.

**CHAPTER TWO**

**The Grimoire**

o0o

When she saw her parents sitting on the floor of her room beside her open school trunk, piles of _Daily Prophets_ spread about them, Hermione went through the first two stages of teen, "Oh, bugger," within seconds: Denial—_I don't believe it._ Anger—_How could they?_ But then her dad held up one copy with the headline: "_Ministry Break-in_."

—and she moved straight onto Bargaining. "I can explain."

Her parents looked at each other, and when her father opened his mouth, her mother gave a tight shake of her head, and instead he just crossed his arms. 

Hermione's face heated. "That paper—er—it's really so amusing, a complete rag—um—I mean, you wouldn't believe the rubbish they write—"

"You mean like this one," her father said, sweeping up another paper from the pile strewn on the floor as he stood holding it up to her—this one had a picture of her petrified from the Basilisk in her bed in the Hospital Wing. His mouth twisted. "I'm not sure what is more upsetting. That you never told us about any of this, or that the school never did."

Her mother used the chair by the cherry roll-top desk to pull herself up off the floor, and then ran her hands jerkily down her trousers. She wove through the piles of newspapers and books to stand close to Hermione. "We've taken so much on trust. We even accepted your explanation that the purple liquid you've been taking was just cough syrup and you were getting over a cold."

"Though your stuttering and the way your face flamed up did rather tip us off," her father said. "We're not stupid." He flung the newspaper to the floor.

"No," her mother said, "just wilfully blind. But then when we went to the lake last week and you claimed to have forgotten to take your bathing suit and refused to go shopping for another …" Her mother took a deep breath and started to unbutton her daughter's blouse.

Hermione batted her mother's hands away from her, shocked at the action, but not before her mother's deeply indrawn breath told her she had seen. She looked down to see the shiny pink scar snaking down from just below her collarbone and disappearing under the top of her bra. "It's not so bad … It'll heal without a scar … It was worse—" She stopped at her mother's horrified expression, realising she had said exactly the wrong thing.

With shaking fingers, her mother unbuttoned her daughter's blouse the rest of the way as Hermione backed away, glaring. "Here, let me." She flung her blouse open showing that the scar continued down right to her belly button. "Satisfied?"

Her father's face turned red and he looked away, whilst her mother stared at the scar. "Not 'til we get you out of that school," she said.

"I'm sixteen. You can't make me." She winced immediately at how juvenile that made her sound and tried again. "I mean—"

"We don't have to pay for it at least. And as long as you're under our roof … My God, Hermione, you can't treat us like this … just throw away our concern like so much rubbish. We care—" Then her mother's face crumpled and she started sobbing.

For the first time, Hermione noticed how grey her mother had grown this year while she'd been at Hogwarts, from a few silver threads to a shock of it framing her face. Feeling a pang of sympathy and remorse, she took a step forward, placing a hand on her mother's arm, but then moving away and digging her nails into her palms, fighting to keep her expression blank. She didn't want to feed their concern, their resistance.

Their interference.

Her father went to his wife and pulled her into his arms.

Just like that her parents closed her out. Even when it was about her, it wasn't. Before she'd gone to Hogwarts, her parents had seemed individuals, separate persons. Her father she'd always been able to wheedle with a look, a touch of a hand. But now they were one unit against her. Muggles against witch. And this time she couldn't go to her room and close them out, because they were _here_.

Her throat constricted and she felt the burn of tears. Maybe she had made a mistake, to hide this all from them, but she had feared this reaction, that they'd pull her out of Hogwarts. Before this year, her parents could have done just that. As she had hid things from them and kept secrets and made up stories, she had only widened the gap between them, making the lies easier to tell than the truth.

Crookshanks wound around her legs. Stooping, she picked him up, took him with her and hurled herself on her bed as her mother cried herself out. Hermione felt grateful when he curled his warm body on her lap. He butted her hand with his nose, and she scratched that spot right under his chin he liked best, and he rewarded her with a purr. Crooks didn't often let her indulge in much petting and something in his scrunched-up face even now looked put upon. But he always seemed to know when she needed him.

Her cat. Her familiar. Even as her father held on to his wife, Hermione saw him look over at her and Crookshanks and frown.

Hermione thought of the expression as his this-is-freaky-but-let-me-pretend-that's-just-a-cat frown. The frown went with his my-daughter's-not-really-a-witch squint. 

Because she knew reminding her parents she was a witch made them uncomfortable, she hid her medals, awards and prizes inside drawers rather than proudly displaying them as the Weasley children did at the Burrow. Since even during school holidays she had so often been away, she hadn't bothered making the room really hers. Her room was just a place to hole up to read. This wasn't home anymore; nothing in her room spoke of her about to be seventeen-year-old self.

Except the grimoire on the nightstand. And her wand.

Viktor Krum had sent her the book. She had asked if he'd kept any of his old Advanced Dark Arts textbooks last autumn when Umbridge would teach them nothing. Viktor had refused her request until he had read how badly she had been injured this June. He said she was right—that someday she might need to fight fire with fire.

Knowledge was power.

It was a Durmstrang textbook. A book banned in Britain under Ministry law.

Umbridge had been the Ministry's representative. The same Ministry which had made those stupid laws.

The book was bound in plain, if supple, black leather, not made of human or dragon skin as she had heard was often true of dangerous grimoires in the Dark Arts. It didn't shriek at her if she opened it. It didn't whisper at her in dreams to come read, and it didn't exert more of a tug at her than any other book when she was awake. This wasn't Riddle's diary. The words were in an ordinary, typeset, black print, not a brownish or reddish scrawl suggesting the text had been inked in blood. The book was written in German, but a simple translation charm would take care of that difficulty. She felt frustrated that knowledge was inches away and the power to unlock its secrets only barred by the tracer the Ministry put on her wand forbidding minors magic out of school.

As much as she admired Harry, and despite what she had said to encourage him, she didn't delude herself that the D.A. study group or five years with five different, mostly incompetent, Dark Arts teachers had left them with a good grounding. Ironically, she suspected she had done worst of all on her Dark Arts O.W.L.s for all that she had practical experience.

No. Not Dark Arts. Defence Against the Dark Arts. Defence.

There was a difference. She remembered the whispers back in fourth year, about how Durmstrang taught the Dark Arts, the real thing. Durmstrang—Grindelwald's old school.

Were she already seventeen, she could do that translation charm and unlock all that would be open to her in that book. Within the tome might be a memory charm. So tempting. _Obliviate_. Just think, an incantation, a wave of a wand, and her parents would be as before. Unknowing. Which would be best for everyone.

Sometimes she wondered if it would be better for all three of them if her parents could forget she was a witch, or if they ever wished they could forget they had a daughter. She had been able to get away with saying little of the wizarding world to her parents because of their own talent for ignoring what didn't fit their ordinary existence. They didn't need an Obliviate to act as if magic didn't exist most of the time. In that way, they weren't too different from what Harry told her of the Dursleys. She guessed all Muggles had to be that way to cope with the very existence of a world they could never be a part of. She often thought that if her parents knew more of what happened during the school year, they'd be as afraid of her as for her.

Finally, her mother appeared to be cried out and turned in her dad's arms, facing their daughter. Moving to the bed, her mother sat down beside Hermione and reached out to touch her hair. "Baby, I—"

Hermione scooted away. "I'm not a child." She said it wearily, with no hope she could make her mother understand how far she'd left childhood behind. Strangely enough, her mother had taken it in stride when Hermione had gone, that summer after her fourth year, to visit Viktor in Bulgaria. Had even given her "the talk." Her mother seemed prepared to accept that, even at fifteen, Hermione had been ready to be an adult in some ways and yet in others … "I can ask Mrs Weasley to come here. Owl her." She smiled bitterly as she saw her father squint and frown at her remark. "You remember her. Maybe you'll accept how things are better from an … _adult_ than from little me."

"Yes, I rather think we would like to meet with her," her father said. "She, at least, has never lied to us."

o0o

The next morning, Hermione sat cross-legged on her chair in her room making lists of what to do next. If her parents didn't calm down, she could always go to ground in Grimmauld Place. Writing out her options, listing, organising things, if only on paper, had always helped to soothe her, made her feel more under control. She needed that.

Her father's words to her, that at least Mrs Weasley had never lied to them, had hurt. All the more because Hermione had to acknowledge the truth in it. Except she had never really been a very good liar, and she knew it. She always had to psyche herself up to it, and could feel her face heat and her gaze skitter off whenever she lied. If her parents had been fooled all these years, it had been because, as even her mother had admitted, they'd been willing.

Besides, especially after this school year, she wanted to draw an even thicker curtain around her world—for her parents' own protection. Not only didn't she feel like a child, in some ways she felt the only adult here, her parents the children. If her world ever came crashing into theirs, only she would be able to wield a wand to protect them.

When she heard voices, she crept downstairs to see her parents at the door with Mrs Weasley. Hermione retreated back to her room before her parents spotted her. She smiled at the smell of baking coming to her through her closed door. It smelt like forgiveness, even if understanding was yet to be found.

Looking up at the creak of the door, she saw her father there. He gestured at her to follow him. He didn't say a word or even look at her as they went downstairs. She felt guilty noticing the dark circles under his eyes. Had he even slept last night?

Her mother, eyes red-rimmed, sat drinking tea in the kitchen with Mrs Weasley. The rattling of the cup against the saucer betrayed unsteady hands. Hermione feared the delicate china would shatter if her mother held the teacup any more tightly.

"Mum?" Hermione wanted to hug her mother, tell her everything would be all right, but instead she just stood frozen by the table.

"Sit," her mother said, setting her cup down hard enough to cause a loud clink and for tea to spill over into the saucer. Her father went to stand behind her mother and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze.

Hermione slid silently into a chair, taking a freshly baked biscuit and nibbling at the edges, more to have something to do than anything else. She felt too queasy from nerves to have any real appetite. 

Her father ran his hand across his eyes, scrubbing at them the way he always did when he was tired. "What … kind of man involves children in a war?"

"Volde—" Hermione began, shooting Mrs Weasley an apologetic look.

"You-Know-Who," said Mrs Weasley, and Hermione winced. She somehow hadn't believed using that term herself would reassure her parents as to her maturity, nor did an adult like Mrs Weasley using it do anything to soothe their fears. Seeing her father clench his hands into fists and her mother go white-lipped confirmed it.

"I didn't mean him. I mean Dumbledore," he said.

Her mother's glare managed to take in both Mrs Weasley and Hermione. "I thought Hogwarts was a school for children, not a bleeding military academy."

Even that mild an oath told Hermione that her mother was still far from smoothed down. She shot a pleading look at Mrs Weasley.

"Hogwarts really is the safest place for them. I wouldn't be sending my own children there if that weren't so. I shall feel far less worried for Ron and Ginny come September with them at Hogwarts than for my other children. Albus Dumbledore—"

"Has obviously long taken leave of his senses," her father said.

"Or obviously is so ruthless he has no problem throwing children into the breach," her mother said.

"He didn't send us to the Ministry of Magic, Mum—but he did save us." No, it had been Harry they had been following into danger, but Hermione didn't think mentioning that would win over her parents.

"That's not the point," her mother said as she slammed the _Daily Prophet_ onto the table. "You almost died—twice—and the school never informed us." Her mother looked over at Mrs Weasley. "Surely you don't condone this, Molly?"

"No, but I understand it. You're Muggles, you see, and—"

"Muggles." Her father scowled. "Does that make us any less her parents?"

"I wish that damned letter had never come," her mother said.

Hermione felt the tears come and choked them angrily back. Weeping was no way to convince her parents to respect her judgment. "That's like saying you wished I was never born. Or that I wasn't born a girl."

When the letter had come from Hogwarts, with Professor McGonagall not far behind for a visit to answer their questions, what had been written on her parents' faces had plainly been relief. The news McGonagall had brought was no surprise after the strange events surrounding Hermione since early girlhood: Things like flinging Robbie Masters clear across a room without touching him when he'd pulled so hard at her plaits when she was six; or the time, not long before the letter had come, when she'd lost her grip on a tree branch only to come floating down unhurt before her mother's unbelieving eyes.

Learning you were a witch among witches and wizards—well, it meant at least she was no freak. At least not whilst at Hogwarts.

"Hermione is a witch," said Mrs Weasley. "She was born one; a wand didn't make her one. Neither did a letter from Hogwarts. Leaving a witch uneducated and untrained is dangerous to all around her. Letting … people not so gifted even know about our world has proven even more dangerous. It wasn't so long ago that magically gifted children born into non-magical households would be taken without the parents' consent or knowledge."

Hermione found herself slouching down in her chair at the shouts Molly Weasley's attempt at an explanation evoked. This wasn't going to be easy. Her problems weren't going away like … magic? But then, magic wasn't really costless or easy was it? Only Muggles thought that way.

She found herself rubbing absently at her scar. She could still feel it even running her hand over her jumper. But it was better. No longer ridged or itching like it had the first week or so. Madam Pomfrey had said that if she kept taking the potion, by the time she went back to school, it would have healed completely without a mark. That others were not so lucky.

"So you're letting children fight for you?" her father said. "Because it seems in all these papers every bloody casualty is a child. Is there even one adult, one teacher—"

Mrs Weasley's eyes met Hermione's over the table. "Believe me," Mrs Weasley said, "it's not quite how the papers make things seem."

Hermione had been at Grimmauld Place with Mrs Weasley last summer when Professor Snape had Flooed in, his robes covered with dark splotches. Apparently Madam Pomfrey hadn't been at the Hogwarts Hospital Wing that day and … Hermione closed her eyes but, of course, that only helped make the memory more vivid, rather than shut it out. Her nose twitched just at the memory of the coppery smell that had assaulted her.

Snape had slid bonelessly to the floor. Mrs Weasley had flung off his robes, tossing them out of her way, and they'd landed at Hermione's feet. Without thinking, she had picked them up. She had dropped them quickly when she'd felt something wet and sticky on her hands. Blood.

Somehow, having seen Snape lying like that on the floor, his blood on her hands, made the war real to her in a way Cedric Diggory's death had not. If one of the most fearsome, and certainly most intimidating, wizards she knew could be so vulnerable, then what chance did she have? Her experience that summer had hardened her like a plunge into icy water did fired steel.

After having it impressed upon her what she and her friends would be facing, Hermione hadn't been able to let it go when Umbridge refused to teach any proper Defence. Harry had formed the D.A. at her urging. Not even the directive against the group had caused her to back down. Even a year before, Hermione might have worried that defying Umbridge could get them expelled. But that younger Hermione didn't have the memory of using a brush to get Snape's dried blood out from under her fingernails.

Hermione expelled a harsh breath and dismissed the image from her mind. "Dumbledore did fight for us."

"I don't see reports about him ever being a casualty." Her father's face turned up in a sneer that almost made Hermione grin at its familiarity.

"Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, died defending us at the Ministry. Even Professor Snape—"

"That nasty piece of work you've told us about?"

Her laughter was a little shaky, but at least it didn't hurt anymore. Her wound was healing. "Liking Professor Snape is impossible. And I don't think he much likes us either. But it hasn't stopped him from coming to our defence. More than once. And he has been hurt. More than once."

"Oh, that's all right then. I feel so much better for all your safety."

Hermione smiled, but it was a little weak. She felt ashamed that the other instance Snape had been injured that she knew of had been at her hands—at the combined _Expelliarmus_ of her and her friends in the Shrieking Shack. She had said nothing when Black, using Snape's own wand to levitate him out, had bumped the helpless man's lolling, bleeding head repeatedly against the ceiling. She had stayed quiet later when Ron, with Harry joining in, had gone into a fit of laughter remembering how "funny" the "greasy git" had looked.

But however they felt about Snape—and she was sure he knew how little they cared for him—it hadn't stopped him from coming to their rescue at the Shrieking Shack. Even after the treatment at theirs and Black's hands, when Snape had come around, he hadn't run to save himself, leaving them to a werewolf and the Dementors roaming out there in the night. Unlike Black, who had abandoned them to go after Pettigrew, Snape had somehow managed to get them all safely back to Hogwarts.

So, after last summer, she felt a little protective toward Snape even if she hadn't said anything to Ron or Harry about having seen him injured. She had been afraid they'd laugh at her concern—or just joke about how lucky they'd be if Snape got knocked senseless and never woke up.

"—there are other schools—I read about this Beauxbatons in France in the paper—surely we could transfer Hermione there," her mother said. "I even have family in France."

"Or if this Voldimold, or whoever, is that dangerous, even better to go across an ocean if need be," her father said. "Surely they have these schools in Canada or the States or Australia?"

"No," Hermione said.

"Young lady," her mother said. She turned to Mrs Weasley. "From what you've said, in the wizarding world Hermione is still a minor—"

Hermione stood up, tightly gripping the back of the chair and trying hard to keep her voice and temper under control. "I soon won't be. Wizards come of age at seventeen."

"You're still a child. My child," her father said.

"Grandpa wasn't much older than me when he fought in the war. Yes, I almost died." _More times than they know._ She looked from her mother to her father. The twitch in her father's jaw telegraphed anger, her mother's blank expression shock. Hermione felt the gulf between them widen. "I've faced things—" Hermione felt her face grow hot and her voice grew shrill despite her best efforts. "Can you say the same? Have you ever feared for your life but stayed because your friends counted on you? You can't possibly understand or claim the right to treat me as a child after what I've been through." 

"This isn't your fight, Hermione," her mother said. "I understand you care about Harry—"

"Oh mum, don't you see? I'm Muggle-born. I'm what the Death Eaters want to erase. It's not so much me fighting for Harry. He's fighting for me." 

When Hermione had awakened this June at the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, she had realised death could be the price of magic and friendship. At least she didn't have to face it alone, unlike Snape. Harry and Ron were there for her. "It's worth it," she whispered.

Her father sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Hermione—"

"I'm going back. I'll be seventeen not three weeks into the coming autumn term. If you pull me out of Hogwarts, I'll be back there before the end of September. You'll only have served to put me behind in my coursework. And if you add in the extra months gained when I used a Time Turner, I might have already gained my majority months ago."

"Time Turner?" her father asked.

"Please explain it to them, Mrs Weasley. I'll be up in my room."

"Hermione." Her mother's voice sounded plaintive, forgiving, concerned, but that made Hermione run even faster up the stairs. She couldn't let that soften her resolve.

She flung herself onto her bed and was grateful when Crookshanks leaped on the bed with her and touched his nose against hers. She rubbed his soft belly. "You understand I can't leave my friends, don't you, Crooky? At least you won't tell me otherwise."

She debated for a moment whether to go back down the stairs and try again to get through to her parents. But she didn't think they were inclined to listen to her right now, that they needed time, and in the end—regardless of how her parents' felt—she intended to be on the Hogwarts Express come September. 

Trying to block out of her mind the conversation going on downstairs, Hermione picked up the latest book she had been reading, _L'Art Noir et Blanc_—an old Beauxbatons text she'd bought on Diagon Alley on Dark Arts Defence. She didn't need a translation charm for that. But finding it impossible to concentrate, she put the book aside and instead set herself to returning her room to some semblance of order.

Looking about her, it occurred to her that if her parents ever came up here whilst she was away, it was little wonder if they still saw her as frozen at eleven years old.

Putting the stuffed animals about the room into the back of her closet, she filled the spaces with old texts she had stored away there. She removed the ruffled pink bed skirt, worthy of Lavender Brown, and folded it up and put it in a drawer. She surveyed her room. Nothing she could do about the colour of her duvet, but at least the room looked more like something an adult might inhabit. 

She sat back down on her bed and again tried to read. She frowned. Commanding spirits and djinn? Not exactly on the Hogwarts curriculum. She got lost in the book and started when she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Mrs Weasley?"

The older woman sat on the bed beside her. "I've convinced your parents to let me take you to the Burrow for the rest of the summer given there'd be no particular safety for you in their world. I told them how much of what's been in the Muggle papers has been You-Know-Who's work. And that you'd be safest and best protected with other wizards about. I also told them that not paying the Hogwarts tuition wouldn't stop you—that you could easily earn a scholarship with your marks."

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley. It's so hard for me to explain …" After all, why would her parents believe her when she told them? She was only their daughter. She sometimes envied Ron all that he didn't have to explain and all he could ask his parents.

"You mustn't blame your parents for being concerned. They've had quite the shock. They have every right to be angry."

"But Dumbledore—"

"I can't always agree with how the Headmaster's dealt with Harry. Or you. Giving an eleven-year-old boy that Invisibility Cloak that first year—then rewarding all of you with the House Cup for what the three of you did—it's as if he wanted Harry to go after You-Know-Who by himself."

Hermione couldn't deny that. Even Harry had thought that Dumbledore had meant to give him a chance to face Voldemort alone. Back then they'd seen that as an honour and a privilege, as if they were being treated with respect, not a betrayal. And hadn't Harry told her how proud the Headmaster had been that they'd called their study group Dumbledore's Army? Were her parents all that wrong?

"And even giving you that Time Turner your third year," Mrs Weasley said. "What's the hurry in cramming in your studies at the cost of cutting off your childhood in that way? Couldn't Runes and Arithmancy have kept? Did they have to rush you into adulthood all the better to fight?"

She felt Mrs Weasley rubbing her back in soothing circles, and it made her want to crawl into her lap and have a good cry. But she felt that would be a kind of retreat when she had been trying so hard to be accepted as adult. So instead Hermione pulled away and moved to her dresser and started opening drawers.

"I'll get my things together, then."

Mrs Weasley sighed, then rose from the bed. "I'll be downstairs. Call me when you've finished packing, so I can reduce your trunk and bags and then we'll Apparate to the Burrow."

"Mrs Weasley—Ron and the others—they don't have to know about any of this, do they? I mean Harry has enough on his mind losing Sirius and with what happened and—"

Mrs Weasley's gaze locked with hers, and she nodded. It was a direct look—an adult-to-adult look that made Hermione proud and sad all at once. "I'll keep your confidence, Hermione. I hope you'll come to trust me and call on me if you're ever in difficulty."

Hermione nodded but doubted she'd ever be able to tell Mrs Weasley anything. She could confide little that wouldn't betray Harry and Ron's secrets—or even Ginny's. Being treated like an adult didn't seem much easier than being treated like a child, after all. Hermione managed a slight smile. "Well, I did today, didn't I? Thank you so much for everything, Mrs Weasley," she said huskily.

Mrs Weasley gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then left her to pack.

Hermione's hand froze when she came across the grimoire. She felt vaguely disturbed at her pent-up hunger to read and learn everything it had to offer. A Dark Arts book. But Viktor wasn't evil despite where or what he had been taught. He hadn't even wanted to give the book to her at first, knowing it was banned here. And Viktor was no Death Eater. It wasn't like he cared what family she had been born to. She had visited his home, met his family, and they had treated her wonderfully. Learning from this book hadn't twisted him.

They wouldn't even have let her in the door at Durmstrang. They didn't allow Muggle-borns there. Mudblood is how they'd have thought of her. Something dirty, dark, unclean.

She opened the book to the place marked by Viktor's letter that had come with the textbook. His English had improved over the years even if the last time she'd seen him in person, he still hadn't quite been able to pronounce his w's. Even if he often still jokingly wrote her name as "Herm-own-Ninny." Except this last time when he had written her name in the letter that came with the textbook: "Be careful, Hermione. Stay safe."

They had never lost touch even if, in the end, they hadn't wound up together in the way she thought they might. Viktor had been her first—first male to ever notice she was female, first to call her beautiful, first date, first kiss … first everything. He not only hadn't minded she was a bookworm, he'd enjoyed that she hadn't been all about Quidditch. But in the end, the spark just never sustained much of a flame, and the harder they had tried, the more forced and awkward it had felt, until they had settled into a distant friendship.

She closed her eyes, trying to draw his face in her mind. Black eyes and hair, and a prominent and curved nose set in a sallow complexion. Too often, his face contracted into a scowling expression. But when he did smile, she felt as if it were just for her. Not a handsome face, no—but arresting, even compelling, and it hadn't been lost on her who Viktor resembled. No matter how hard she tried, another face transposed itself on the features she tried to recall.

If she were honest, she had been drawn to Snape even before she had met Viktor. Back when there had been no reason to see Professor Snape in a heroic light. No, Snape couldn't be called handsome, even if she saw a curved nose no more hooked than Dumbledore's was and would describe Snape's hair more as lank or limp, as fine hair could be, rather than greasy. But then she had never hated Snape as Ron and Harry did, she saw him through very different eyes. Even if he was, admittedly, a nasty piece of work who had never shown a trace of kindness or warmth in those black eyes. Or any positive emotion, for that matter.

If the darkness was what drew her, did that make this book more dangerous to her? She smiled at her own whimsy. It wasn't like her to think in those terms, and she probably wouldn't be if the events of yesterday hadn't reminded her that even the small, more innocuous things she took for granted in the wizarding world, such as having a familiar, seemed so very frightening and freakish to her parents.

She felt uneasy about packing the book, as if it were a betrayal of the Weasleys to bring an illegal book to the Burrow given that Arthur Weasley worked for the Ministry.

Yeah, and so did that prat Percy. And Umbridge.

Everything that had happened this year had chipped away at her faith in authority and rules as it had her last sense of safety. She didn't think the Death Eaters back at the Ministry had even been trying to kill them—they were too intent upon getting to the prophecy. If they had really tried, experienced Dark Wizards up against half-trained teens, she felt sure the outcome would have been different.

Hadn't she decided to do whatever it took to defend herself and her own? Again she found herself tracing her scar through her clothing. She wouldn't need a scar to keep her from forgetting how the curse had burned through her skin—the pain had been the most intense sensation she had ever experienced.

Whatever it takes? Wasn't that the Slytherin motto?

_Get a grip, Granger. It's a book. Books are your friends._ She shrugged. She could just keep the book in her trunk during the summer—she couldn't use magic to read it before the start of term anyway.

Tired of the inner debate, she threw the book into her trunk and slammed it closed. She had spent too long among dark things, shutting herself in a room with the smell of dusty, old parchment, surrounded by a clammy Dementors' mist that hung about making her cold to the bone.

Ron had boasted in his last letter to her that it was sunny at the Burrow. She wanted the sun. She wanted Ron to make her laugh, and to lie with Ginny in the grass and gossip with her about boys, as if Hermione were just a young girl concerned with light things. She thought that not only could she bear having Ron natter on nonstop about Quidditch, but that she could even bear flying on a broom and playing Quidditch to be with the Weasleys.

All the Weasleys, but especially Ron, were like her own personal Patronus. She knew it was no accident an otter served as her Patronus. As in Ottery St Catchpole, the village nearest the Burrow. She couldn't be dark and brooding with Ron about. He wouldn't allow it. Nothing brooding or deep or serious could be sustained with him. That was often the problem between them, but it was also the attraction. And right now, she didn't want serious. She walked downstairs looking for Mrs Weasley determined to soak up some sun.

This coming autumn term would be soon enough to head toward all that was Dark.

o0o

_**to be continued**_


	3. Chapter Three Omens

Disclaimer: © 2005 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur nonprofit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to **_Djinn_** and **_Potion Mistress_** for their betas.

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Omens**

o0o

Snape stopped and knelt beside the dead animal lying halfway up the riverbank, staring down with dread. The scrawny body of the fox was rigid; its lips drawn up to reveal teeth in the rictus of a painful death. He could sense the lingering magic of the Killing Curse sending curling tentacles of destruction, wisping about his body like the mists which shrouded the river lowlands. It had to have been Bellatrix, maybe thinking the fox had been an Auror in Animagus form, maybe just from the casual maliciousness of a small child pulling the wings off a butterfly. Either would fit her paranoid and cruel nature, but not Narcissa's. Narcissa would not go out of her way to be cruel unless her own interests were at stake or her pride was injured.

Snape had never put much stock in Divination. Trelawney's constant pronouncements that he would soon meet his doom had never fazed him. He just took that as his due as someone who pegged her as a fraud in her conscious state. But even at the best of times, it would be difficult for the least impressionable of wizards not to take a death of their Patronus form as an omen. After what had occurred just last night back at the house, it was hard not to take it as the death of hope.

He turned and slowly walked away, taking measured breaths to calm himself before Apparating to Hogwarts' boundaries. All he needed to crown the last twenty-four hours was to splinch himself.

How ironic. Harry Potter was born in July, and it was a July day that saw the beginning of his end. He'd always thought Potter would be the death of him if an exploding cauldron of Longbottom's didn't do the job first—Longbottom who had also been born in July. Who knew?

By the time he made his way to the hospital wing, he had cloaked himself in his usual icy demeanour. "How is the Headmaster?"

"Not good," said Pomfrey. She patted his shoulder. "Don't take it for ill if he snaps at you—he's in quite a temper—for him."

Snape raised an eyebrow and snorted. Someone was warning him of another's nasty mood? "What? You mean he's keeping all his lemon drops to himself?"

"I know from the diagnostic charm that he's in a lot of pain, Severus. He won't take any of the stronger potions. He says he needs to keep his head clear. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Not that the two of you put together have much when it comes to taking care of yourselves." Pomfrey threw her hands up in disgust and turned back to her inventory. "He's in his office. He refused to stay here. He told me there wasn't more I could do for him and he's probably right at that."

As Snape walked towards the door, he heard Pomfrey mutter under her breath about Gryffindors and Slytherins being responsible for all her grief between the lot of them. Snape smiled almost sadly in a way quite unlike his usual smirk. Spoken like a true Ravenclaw.

When Snape reached the Headmaster's office, he noticed that, as was often the case when Dumbledore wanted some privacy, he had asked the portraits to go visiting elsewhere. Fawkes crooned softly on his perch. The stubborn old man sat at his desk. Snape knew what Dumbledore would say if told to lie down: Time enough for that in the grave.

There was no welcoming twinkle in those blue eyes, only pain. Snape could barely meet their gaze before looking away. But even that brief glance seemed to be enough for Dumbledore to know Snape wasn't the bearer of joyful tidings.

"What have you done?"

So much for Occlumency. If he were this transparent to the Dark Lord, he'd have been long dead. But then, Dumbledore was probably just reading his expression. It's not as if he was trying very hard in his fit of self-pity to hide how he felt. Still, he felt a bit stung at how the old man had put it. Not 'what had happened,' but 'what had he done.' Not that Dumbledore was wrong, after all, the man had over a century and a half of learning how to read people. Moreover, it had been Dumbledore who had taught him Occlumency and Legilimency, which meant his mind was an open book to the man. The price he'd paid to gain Dumbledore's trust was that he had no right to privacy or secrets from him—a high price given he was a very private man—and not a privilege that went both ways.

"I shared some elf-made wine with Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange late last night—right about witching hour—with Wormtail as manservant. Oh, and I took an Unbreakable Vow. But other than that, a lovely time was had by all."

He sat down heavily as he said it, not feeling at all the fearsome Death Eater or Boggart of a Professor, but an errant schoolboy all too aware of not being the Headmaster's favourite. There was a lengthy silence and finally Snape looked up at Dumbledore who was shaking his head incredulously.

"Why?"

The snap in the voice was like a slap, but Snape felt grateful for the sharp tone Dumbledore was taking. When Snape finally spoke, his voice was cool and steady.

"My bluff was called. The Dark Lord has set a task for Draco, and his mother is afraid for him." Snape paused a moment to consider his words. "No, terrified. You could imagine her desperation that she was prepared to come to me to speak of it and ask my help. I'm sure I could have drawn her out easily, but with Lestrange there… I told them the Dark Lord had confided all in me."

"And they found that credible?"

Snape smiled bitterly. "The Dark Lord has no confidants, but since Lestrange is so sure she is one of the select few, if not the select one, I thought I could get away with such a statement. Lestrange's very jealousy might give her pause at mentioning the conversation to the Dark Lord only to learn she was wrong that he shares everything with her. Family feeling won't stop her. She seemed to think her nephew giving his life for the cause would be an honour. She won't care what the Dark Lord might do to her sister if he learns she could not hold her tongue."

"And when it is reported by Lestrange that you falsely claimed to know of the plan already, it would draw Tom's wrath from Narcissa to you," Dumbledore said, frowning.

Snape shrugged. "It wouldn't place me in much danger. I can always claim I was testing how much Narcissa would tell me. And he might not want to punish me too openly right now. The Dark Lord enjoys playing his Death Eaters off each other, making each wonder who is the present favourite. With Lucius imprisoned and in disgrace… well, my 'master' gracing me with the presence of Pettigrew is being taken as a mark of great favour. It's well known how much I despise the vermin. Having him—the very man who gave his right hand to bring our 'Lord and Master' back to life—as my servant at my beck and call? It would be seen by many as a great reward for my loyalty. And right now he's… pleased with me, very pleased that I offered up Vance."

"That wasn't your fault, she agreed—"

Snape's look was savage. "Please, spare me; I'm not asking for absolution." Suddenly he couldn't make himself sit still. He got up and started pacing, trading motion for what would be less dignified signs of agitation. "Something of such a magnitude to so upset Narcissa—I felt it was worth any risk. We had to know what they were planning, and I can use the Vow as leverage to get Draco to tell me more."

"Severus, the Vow," Dumbledore asked impatiently.

He stopped, placed his hands on the desk, and leaned towards Dumbledore. "Headmaster, she was reduced to clutching at my robes and sobbing and moaning on the floor. Narcissa Malfoy. The proudest of women? Kneeling before some half-mudblood to plead for her son's life? Whatever this task is, she fears it will mean Draco's death. I… I couldn't turn my back on that. I said I'd keep an eye on Draco, see he comes to no harm."

"As you should, as his Head of House," Dumbledore said, not unkindly. "Is that all you vowed? Not that I can take this lightly. There's a reason not even Voldemort requires an Unbreakable Vow of his followers, binding oneself so irrevocably and broadly at the pain of death entails too great a risk of unseen complications. He shan't appreciate you putting your life at stake to protect Draco. I take it Lestrange insisted?"

"Narcissa asked, and Lestrange dared me to do it, and protecting Draco from harm is not all I vowed." Snape sighed. "It would be easier to just show you."

Snape went to a cabinet and lifted out a heavy stone basin, carrying it to the desk. He brought his wand to his temple and concentrated on the fateful meeting, then lifted his wand drawing out the silver strand from his head to place it in the basin. He then sat to wait as Dumbledore waded through the memory.

When Dumbledore finished, he popped his head out of the Pensieve, his face contorted in what Snape could only take as deep disappointment, even disgust. "You still haven't learned, Severus? Even after what brought you to the Death Eaters in the first place? I have my suspicions about what you did to make that potion heal me." Dumbledore raised his hand to silence him. "I suspect; I do not want to know. You don't know better by now than to sup with the devil?"

"I do so at your bidding, Headmaster, every time I am summoned by the Dark Lord. I try to remember to bring an exceedingly long spoon."

"Did you note what Narcissa said about Draco not being able to succeed where Tom did not?"

"Yes, well, since it is Draco being given this task, it makes sense the target is at Hogwarts, and—-"

"Harry."

Snape couldn't stop a stab of jealousy at the look on Dumbledore's face. He had no doubts he'd be sacrificed for the boy without hesitation. It wasn't the necessity that hurt; it was the lack of regret. He shook his head. "I don't think so, Headmaster. I don't think Narcissa would be so terrified if it were just Potter who Draco was facing, no matter how well the boy is protected."

"You underestimate Harry."

"The point is not what I think of the boy, nor what the _Daily Prophet_ is saying about him being the 'Chosen One,' but how Narcissa and Draco rate him, and he would not inspire that kind of terror from them. Besides that, Headmaster, you noted my mention of you, of how highly the Dark Lord rated your abilities, and that you had been injured—a fact that if we don't mend, will unavoidably soon be evident. You noted their expressions—particularly Narcissa's?"

Dumbledore nodded. Narcissa's head had jerked up in even greater alarm as Snape had named Dumbledore a "great wizard" and that the Dark Lord acknowledged it, then she had drawn a small breath, the glow of hope on her face, when Snape had spoken of Dumbledore's recent weakness. When he had spoken of Potter, there had been no such reaction. Snape had been sure then who was the target. No one else fit.

"You had to do this?" Dumbledore said wearily.

"We had to know!"

"At this cost—is it worth your life?"

"Yes." Snape was surprised at how calm he sounded. The phoenix gave an undulating cry in response.

It's not as if he ever really thought he'd live to see the end of this war, let alone past it. Nor had he thought he'd escape Azkaban at its end if he somehow survived, despite Dumbledore's protection. The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had earned too much enmity in the wizarding world. He'd seen what had happened the first time the Dark Lord had fallen. The hysterical demand for vengeance afterwards that had even engulfed innocents. And he was no innocent. He suspected the calls for blood would be even more frenzied after a second reign of terror.

But it's one thing to risk all, wilfully blinding yourself that this could be your last day, to throw yourself into the heat of battle, than to know, know irrevocably, that you have passed sentence on yourself and put a limit to your existence. Despite his resolve to tell Dumbledore everything, he hadn't been sure until this moment he could do it. That he could choose his own death in cold blood by breaking the Vow. He felt almost giddy with relief and release—akin to the sensation he felt when he had poured his own blood into the cauldron to make the potion to save Dumbledore's life.

"I am ready. I am prepared," Snape said softly, meeting Dumbledore's gaze calmly so the old man could read the truth of it for himself.

Dumbledore sadly shook his head. "You set your value far too low, my boy."

He snorted. "Oh come, Albus, it's not so bad. The day of my death can be made into yet another tiresome school holiday. The Weasley twins can come up with something suitable to properly celebrate the occasion. I promise not to haunt the dungeons. You can put my body under the floor of the Great Hall so the students can dance on my grave. Just promise me you won't hang any bloody portraits of me."

Dumbledore winced. "Do you really believe you'd go so completely unmourned?"

"I'd be terribly disappointed if I weren't, we've both worked so hard to create the greasy git." Snape sighed and ran a hand over his face. "It's all right. I long ago accepted the necessity and that it was a just price for my youthful folly. And the truth is, even if everything we planned didn't call for it, I'm not sure I would be all that different. I was headed in this direction anyway, and it's rarely been much of an effort. I don't think I even know how much is a mask anymore, and how much my true face."

He looked up at Dumbledore's crumpled face with alarm—he had no idea what he said would have such an effect. "Albus, it's all right, truly. Payment has come due, is all."

"No. You are not sacrificing yourself."

"I vowed to complete the deed if Draco fails. Narcissa worded it all very carefully. More carefully than I when… there's no avoiding my fate."

"There is if you fulfil the Vow."

He couldn't be serious. Snape felt his heart pounding in his chest. "That's the pain talking. I'll find a way to help you, I swear it. I was speaking with Pomfrey—I have a potion that can relieve the pain without affecting your mind."

Even excruciating pain was bearable in limited duration. Snape would feel an almost pleasurable rush in the wake of a short bout of Cruciatus. Pleasure in the absence of pain. But when you suffer even far less intensely for hours on end, faced with the reality that it could be a constant companion for the rest of your life? You began bargaining with fate, anything to get relief, even begging out loud to be allowed to die. Snape had experienced that himself; he hoped this was all this was.

Dumbledore lifted his claw of a burned hand. "I'm dying, Severus. At most I have the customary year and a day for the curse to run its course. You know I'm speaking the truth. It makes no sense for you to give your life for mine."

Snape had thought he was past the worst. How wrong he had been. He didn't know what he'd imagined when he'd turned back to the Light, but it wasn't this. Had he really thought he'd clean the blood off his hands, and, as he did, the Dark Mark would fade, or in some impossible miracle of magic would spectacularly be cleansed away? What he had done as a young and lowly ranked Death Eater was bad enough—especially the act that had brought him to Dumbledore in the first place. But it was the acts he did under Dumbledore that etched it all the deeper, and this one would make it indelible.

"We can use this, Severus. We can turn this to our advantage so thoroughly that your folly will be your redemption. We can turn your lie into the truth, make you Tom's most trusted advisor; make him complacent that he has so easily been rid of his most feared nemesis. You can protect the Order with the information you gain, spread disaffection in the Death Eater ranks, be in a position to better identify those we can turn back to the Light and recruit."

Dumbledore had spoken with rising excitement. He was getting the gleam in his eye that Snape so dreaded. The Gryffindor look that scented glory in the air, that reeked of excitement at a chance at achieving the immortality of a sublime nobility.

"Dear Merlin, no."

"Severus, please, listen to me."

"No!" he roared.

He tried reasoning with the old man. How could they make use of him as an agent when he'd seemingly be revealed as a traitor upon killing Dumbledore? Who would lead the Order? Did he really believe Potter would listen to anyone but him? (Not that Potter listened to—or confided in—Dumbledore when it didn't suit him.)

Dumbledore barely seemed to be listening to Snape anymore, already the twinkle had come back into the blue eyes as the old man schemed, dreaming of his next, and greatest, adventure.

Snape supposed any listeners, hearing him argue against preserving his own skin, would think the Sorting Hat had been mad to put him in Slytherin. But what did they know? What "self" would there be left to save if he did this? He shuddered. He had no wish to wind up like that red-eyed monster. He had to admit though, it would take a Slytherin to do what Dumbledore asked. Only one of his own House had the ruthlessness to do what was needed. Even if it wasn't "nice." Even if it made you hated.

"I'd rather my death come at a friend's hands if it comes to that."

Trust Dumbledore to go straight to a Hufflepuff appeal. Snape noted with a curious detachment the tears streaming down Dumbledore's face. Crying had never gained Snape much sympathy. Snivellus never could manage to look so tidy and appealing when he wept. Suddenly, he laughed; it occurred to him that the sight and sound of laughter from him was even uglier. "Friend? The Killing Curse usually takes hatred. Deep, abiding hatred. I'm touched to know you understand the depths of my feelings for you."

Though hatred wasn't really necessary. Only that the caster _meant_ it. And if hatred were needed, maybe it didn't have to be directed at the target—and Snape had so much hatred still untapped. For himself as much as anyone else. And right now, if it came to that, the old man as well for asking this of him. Dumbledore would know that.

"Don't you see?" Dumbledore said. "Harry would lose both of us your way."

"And he'd be so bereaved at my loss."

"What matters is that you've always protected him—you've always found a way to. And the boy may not realise it, but he's learned a lot from you."

"Harry Potter is congenitally incapable of learning anything I try to teach him. Surely the experience last year when you forced me to give him lessons in Occlumency showed you that. If anything, I made things worse."

Dumbledore's eyes glittered strangely. "Harry has learned a lot from you. And he'll continue to," he said patting a book on his desk. "I'd like to offer you the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher starting with the coming term."

_Well, I suppose that confirms it. I'm dead man walking._ He glared at the smiling face before him. "Am I supposed to leap for joy?"

Dumbledore immediately sobered. "I thought you'd find it… satisfying."

"I would have. Fifteen years ago. Ten. Even two years ago, I might have managed a stretch of the lips. I just can't find it in me to care anymore."

"Is that a no?"

"When have I ever said 'no' to you?" Snape felt a little sick at the triumph in the old man's eyes at that statement. Not that he was giving in—just a strategic retreat for now. "Don't worry. By the time of the announcement at the Welcoming Feast, I'm sure I'll manage to look suitably… satisfied." He stood up. "And incidentally, friends don't ask friends to murder them. It tends to do nasty things like splinter their soul."

He turned to leave, but Dumbledore destroyed his exit. Dumbledore grabbed his hand and waved him to take his seat again, insisted that they hash out everything they'd have to do to prepare for what was coming and make the most of the opportunities that would open to them. The security they'd have to add to protect his precious Potter, the wards that would have to be enhanced. All the arrangements that would have to be made so things could continue without them after this year. Snape insisted he'd continue to research the curse. He didn't like the gleam in Dumbledore's eyes when the old man agreed so easily, then nodded, saying he knew exactly who could give him needed assistance.

If only they still had the Philosopher's Stone. Snape grudgingly admitted to himself that would probably be beyond even his potions skill to recreate in the time they had left. And Dumbledore would never allow it in any case.

Finally, Snape thought to ask who'd be taking over his teaching position in potions. He nodded numbly when Dumbledore told him he'd approach Slughorn. That old toad who had left him to his fate all those years ago. His own old Head of House. Slughorn never could be bothered to do anything that would risk his place with his chosen golden cadre, including James Potter, Black, and Lupin. And Snape had never been golden. That lazy, cowardly prat had never done anything to protect his Slytherins, practically driving them into the Dark Lord's arms by default. The Tom Riddle who had become Voldemort had been one of Slughorn's chosen, too. "Lord Voldemort" had started his rise the year Snape had been sorted into Slytherin. By the time Snape had graduated, the Dark Lord had become almost synonymous with it.

"You… are… not… giving Slytherin to Slughorn!"

"No, no, my dear boy, I wouldn't dream of it."

But Slughorn would get it in the end. _Once I'm gone. One way or another._

Finally, Snape jerkily got up. He saw that the book on the desk was his old potions text. How did it get there? Didn't he leave it in the lab last time he was here? He reached out for the book, but Dumbledore stopped him. "I have a use for this."

Snape nodded, tiredly, not really taking in what Dumbledore had said, and walked towards the door. Dumbledore's voice reached him before he could walk out of the office.

"Oh, Severus, I'm concerned about Nymphadora Tonks. She wasn't looking at all well at the last meeting of the Order. Not well at all. She looked too much like herself if you know what I mean and that bodes no good in a Metamorph. When you next see her, do see if you could draw her out."

He refused to turn back but lingered with his hand on the doorknob. "Yes, because of course we're such good friends, going back to when she was a student of mine at Hogwarts, that I'd be the first person she'd confide in."

"Severus, you know—"

"Certainly," he drawled, taking pleasure in knowing without even having to look how irritated Dumbledore would be to be interrupted. "Being the Boggart of young children just isn't sporting. It won't be nearly as fun as driving a trained Auror like Tonks to tears. So then you can offer her a lemon sherbet and a shoulder to cry on."

"It's for Nymphadora's own good."

"She detests that name by the way. I'd use Miss Tonks, or Tonks if I were you, when pretending to be the all-seeing, yet slightly dotty, benevolent uncle."

"Is that what you think of me?"

Snape refused to let the pain in Dumbledore's voice move him. Refused to believe that Dumbledore could possibly care what he thought of him. "What I think is that you'd prefer Muggle chess to the wizard's variety. I understand the pieces of that game don't have a mind of their own."

Not such a bad exit line after all, coupled with a satisfying slam of the door.

He wondered if this was why the djinn had gifted him with the enhanced potion. It needed no price, because the gift itself was the price. He wouldn't be facing this choice if Dumbledore had died two days ago. He wouldn't be deciding which choice would deform his soul the least. Nothing in magic was ever free. Nothing. What made him think he could always set the price?

He made a strangled sound of smothered laughter as it suddenly occurred to him why Dumbledore would give him D.A.D.A. Besides as a last gift to a condemned man. Besides that it wouldn't matter whether or not he could break the curse on the job now that he himself was the one cursed.

Because it certainly looked like Potter would have his way and get to take the N.E.W.T. potions class despite not rating an "outstanding" on his O.W.L. Slughorn wouldn't care about whether Potter had earned a place in Advanced Potions. He wouldn't care that people like Tonks who dreamed of becoming Aurors had either revised endlessly to make the grade required or repeated the course. He wouldn't care about teaching beyond the text to a class that needed to be pushed and challenged to reach their potential. If he knew Slughorn, he'd just use the same damned old textbook that had been taught from for the last century before Snape had the job. Slughorn would care only about the influence and connections sucking up to the arrogant brat-that-lived-for-fame-and-glory could bring him. And Dumbledore would indulge his pet.

Snape felt strangely bereft at the loss of his Potions classes, yet despite himself, he was already planning the D.A.D.A. syllabus in his head as he went down the spiral stairs. He would be far from the most loved or prettiest D.A.D.A. instructor to grace Hogwarts and he knew it—but unlike Lupin or Lockhart he wouldn't be teaching red caps and mandrakes to children about to be sent out to fight a war.

He'd make sure they'd have the best chance of survival possible. Even if he was training the very people who'd be coming after him trying to kill him if Dumbledore had his way. He'd do whatever it took to protect them. It was what he always did.

He would have less than a year with those dunderheads. He'd better make the most of it. 

o0o  


**_to be continued_**  



	4. Chapter Four Reading Minds

Disclaimer: © 2005 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to **Potion Mistress**, **Bambu**,and **Djinn **for betaing!

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Reading Minds**

o0o

Hermione lagged behind the students climbing the stone steps to Hogwarts castle. She squinted, trying to push her sight beyond the mists into the darkening night. She could barely make out the stagecoaches they had just left, but not what had drawn them. She had seen the imprints of hooves on the ground of the driveway, but the Thestrals were still invisible to her. She wondered if this would be the last year that would be true. It was wonder enough she had been spared witnessing death up to now. She shivered, and not just from the biting wind that was picking up.

Ron took her arm to urge her forwards, but she shrugged him off. He gripped her arm more firmly, and pushed her up the steps, but even as she reluctantly stepped forwards, she continued to look back. 

"Where is he, Ron?"

"Harry'll be fine."

"Harry is far from fine," she said, sparing Ron an acid look. There. At least she had finally said that aloud. She'd had enough of pretending everything hadn't changed with Harry since Sirius died. "And now he's missing."

"Hermione, don't make a scene." He stopped and anxiously scanned the grounds. "Harry can take care of himself." The way he nervously licked his lips belied his words, and some of her anger at him eased when she realised he was worried, too, even if he didn't want to admit it to her.

"You heard Neville," Ron said. "He was going—"

"Right into danger." And this time he hadn't taken anyone with him. "We should find someone, a teacher."

"You want to get him expelled?"

"I don't care. Better expelled, than dead. I'd give up every 'O' I got if he'd just show up." For a while at the Burrow, it had been too easy to go back to the girl who'd cared so much about her marks. But now?

"Wow, you have changed."

A new voice whipped out at them from the shadows, making Ron yelp. "I'll happily oblige you, Miss Granger. Just where is Potter?"

They whirled about to find Professor Snape standing behind them on the steps, hands crossed at his chest. How did he always manage to appear out of nowhere? Was it a Disillusionment Charm, or could he _really_ be part vampire? The smile on his face was a taunt, yet she was tempted to tell the Professor everything. She'd always wonder if Sirius would still be alive if they'd gone to Snape for help. She didn't want to make the same mistake twice. Ron's fingers digging into her arm, urging silence, only annoyed her and firmed her resolve.

She deliberately met that intense gaze, willing him to read the message there: _Find Harry_. She tried to form an image of the Slytherin compartment on the Express in her mind. For a moment, the darkness in those eyes reached out and enveloped her, and she felt as if she was speeding through a pitch-black tunnel. When she emerged, she sensed he understood.

Her momentary relief turned to dismay when, instead of heading out to the gates, Snape hurried past them to a bunch of sniggering Slytherins who were just going through the threshold of the giant oak doors. He cut one out of the herd—Zabini, she noted—and as she and Ron approached, she could hear the hissing sound of urgent whispers. Snape continued inside the doors, but by the time they reached the entrance, he was sweeping back past them carrying a lantern. His fluid movements and the way his robes billowed and snapped in the wind made him look like a raptor about to take flight.

Satisfied, she quickly moved to catch up to the other students, Ron at her side.

"Blimey, I swear Snape gets creepier every year," he said.

"He _is_ scary," Hermione said.

_Dangerous_. She smiled. Scary and dangerous sounded wonderful to her as long as he was on their side. Ron gave her an odd look, and she patted his arm.

"I'm sure you're right. Harry will be fine."

Something was nagging at her, though. There was something about Snape's face, his eyes, that she found disturbing even before their gaze had sucked her into those strange depths. She could tell he had lost weight. His eyes were sunken, the angles of his face and their lines even more pronounced than they had been scant months before. His pallor was even more striking than usual; his skin had looked waxen in the moonlight. But it was the expression in those eyes that seemed achingly familiar even if she couldn't place it yet.

She found it hard not to fidget on the bench at the Gryffindor table, feeling too anxious to be at rest. Ron kept shooting her uneasy glances, as if he was equally worried about her and Harry. He tried a few times to start a conversation, but she couldn't make herself give more than clipped, one-word answers. Ron finally turned to Seamus Finnegan and started a conversation about Quidditch with evident relief. Having Ron's undivided attention for more than ten minutes at a time was closing on his limit anyway. He was already taking on that excited look that only Quidditch—and part-Veelas—seemed to draw out of him.

At least he wasn't drooling at some other girl. Summer at the Burrow had been… frustrating. Hermione just wished Ron would get it over with. What "it" was, she wasn't capable of articulating to herself, only that she'd known since fourth year that Ron fancied her in some way—just not enough to ever say or do anything about it, or even look at her the way he did Fleur.

And she wasn't sure what she wanted to give back, just that the thought of losing Ron made her stomach clench, and she felt that if they didn't deal with this, someday they'd explode. She'd hinted at what she thought he felt and each time he'd run away from her or turned things into a joke. Of course, it hadn't been as though she had tried to tell him how she felt, mostly because she wasn't sure herself, just that the whole subject made her nervous.

And her parents? They had given Molly Weasley money to get them an owl of their own. For over three weeks now, Hermione had been getting almost daily missives from her mother, alternating with her father, which were getting longer and more strained as her notes in return became shorter and shorter. She thought they might be getting nervous that, by wizarding law anyway, she'd be beyond their control in a matter of weeks.

And then there was Harry, who had tried much too hard to pretend he was nonchalant about the prophecy, and that Sirius' loss wasn't much on his mind. Their visit a month ago to Diagon Alley had started an obsession with what Draco Malfoy was up to that Hermione considered far from healthy.

She couldn't stop herself from staring again and again at the doors. Finally, someone did come through, but it was only Professor McGonagall, followed by the first-years. She missed the beginning of the Sorting Song, still staring at the doors to the Great Hall, and willing Professor Snape to appear with Harry—safe—but a mention of the Founders drew her attention:

_"Bright Ravenclaw, knew well logic's worth,  
Cutting with her quick wit and as vital as air;  
Steadfast Hufflepuff, was grounded in earth,  
Well-rooted and good shelter for her friends;  
Fearless Gryffindor, would never let the light go out,  
He would be unflinching even when the fire burned;  
Crafty Slytherin, flowed around life's rocks,  
Not least of four, like water he could run, then turn.  
Three legs on a table are not enough;  
If one is cut off, it soon will collapse.  
Four like the elements, like this castle's cornerstones;  
Like the winds four quarters, like the points of a compass.  
If we do not unite against our enemies,  
Then a sorry end we'll all come to, alas!"_

"You know," she whispered to Ron, "it never occurred to me before, but the Sorting Hat sounds like one of those true prophecies."

"You mean the hat has Trelawney's brain inside it?"

She punched him on the arm.

"Ouch. You know, there's one leg I'd happily saw off, sod the consequences," Ron muttered, glaring meaningfully at the Slytherin table.

"Oh, Ron, don't you think the hat has a point?"

But apparently Ron wasn't the only one unwilling to take the hat's warning to heart. The hissing was back. She heard it as the first child was sorted into Slytherin. The Weasley twins had started the custom at the Sorting in her fourth year. For quite a while afterwards, hissing would follow even the youngest Slytherins as they passed through the halls. Reportedly, Snape had gone into fits over that derisive taunt and it had stopped when Dumbledore made his displeasure known. Last year's Inquisitorial Squad, composed mostly of Slytherins, certainly had garnered nothing but ill-will for the House though. And Snape wasn't here right now, whilst Dumbledore seemed lost in thought at the High Table, staring intently at the doors.

Following his gaze, Hermione saw Harry come in then, Snape following somewhat behind, and slumped in relief. She gasped when Harry came closer, and she could see his face was covered in blood. He sat between her and Ron, and as she cleaned him off with a spell, she peered anxiously at his face, wondering where all that blood had come from. Harry cut off her questions about what had happened, and her eyes wandered back to the High Table, looking for Snape. He was now seated next to Dumbledore and staring intently to his right.

She followed his gaze to the head of the Slytherin table. Malfoy was putting his fist to his nose, then jerking back his head, accompanied by Parkinson's high-pitched giggles, Nott's guffaws, and the clapping of his two minions, Crabbe and Goyle. Zabini and Bulstrode looked glum despite their new prefect badges. For a moment Zabini's eyes met hers, then his gaze dropped and he jerkily started spearing food onto his plate. She looked away when she caught Millicent Bulstrode glaring back at her. Well, now she had a good idea what had happened.

She turned her attention back to her friends, asking Harry what Slughorn had wanted back on the train. She was curious about the new teacher. She didn't think Harry had much liked him on first acquaintance. Of course, by now, Harry would dislike anyone who admitted to being a Slytherin.

Not long afterwards, Dumbledore stood to give his yearly address. Hermione wasn't the only one who gasped when he lifted his arms, exposing his blackened right hand. It was like the other shoe dropping when he announced Slughorn would be teaching Potions and that Snape would be taking that apparently cursed D.A.D.A. position. How could the Slytherins applaud that? Snape considered this a triumph? Didn't they understand what this meant? Madam Pomfrey, at least, looked grim; every line of her body radiated her stiff disapproval.

Harry noted that the job was jinxed—had proved deadly even. "Personally," he said, "I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death."

It was appalling to hear him wish for Snape's death. It wasn't mere callous dislike for a difficult and demanding teacher. The hate in his voice was vicious. She swallowed hard. She knew Harry blamed Professor Snape for Sirius' death. She guessed it was a lot easier than allotting himself his own portion of the blame. It was true that Snape's comments to Sirius hadn't made his confinement easier, but it had been Dumbledore who had required that of Sirius. And unlike Harry, Hermione didn't think Snape's goading could have been much of a factor in Sirius rushing to the Ministry. Everything she had observed or heard about Sirius Black proved him not just reckless, but that he was a man who had loved danger even if he had to create it. And in any case, he had loved Harry with a scary intensity. He certainly wouldn't have been held back whilst believing his godson was in danger.

Besides, everything she had learned over the past two years had convinced her that, except for Dumbledore, they had no ally more powerful than their bitterly sarcastic, ex-Potions, and soon-to-be-Defence, teacher. Just his status as a spy in Voldemort's ranks made him crucial. And now Dumbledore sported a dead, possibly cursed, hand and Snape—

With a jolt, she realised what she had seen in Snape's eyes when she'd met his gaze tonight. It was the same way Harry's eyes had looked at times this summer when he thought no one was watching. Knowing what Harry had gone through, and what he knew of his own future, she had named that bleak look: loss, despair, grief. Hermione shook her head. She must be imagining things borne out of her fear for Harry losing his two strongest protectors. She hadn't ever caught that expression on Snape before. But before this summer, would she have even known or cared to look?

o0o  


Hermione had finished directing the Gryffindor first-years to their dormitories when she saw Leanne Montgomery, Head Girl and a fellow Gryffindor, hurrying towards her. The girl handed her a roll of parchment addressed to her in an unfamiliar thin, slanting hand.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_I hope you enjoyed the Welcoming Feast. I would  
like you to drop by my office tonight once you  
are finished with the first-years. Please do not  
say anything to anyone about this meeting. The  
password is Acid Pops._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Deeply troubled, she hurried to Dumbledore's office. She couldn't imagine why the Headmaster would want to see her, let alone why he'd want to keep it secret even from Harry. She had got past the gargoyle and was heading up the spiral steps, when she heard voices—one of which seemed very angry and all too familiar. If she had been Harry, her next step would have been to press her ear at the door, but all she wanted to do was beat a hasty retreat. Even Dumbledore was shouting loud enough for her to understand what he was saying: "I am trying to save your life!"

She hesitated at the door, trying to hear if there was some indication Snape was about to leave. _God_. But what if the meeting included him? She could wait hours downstairs for him to leave, so retreat was hardly an option. Telling herself to have some of the backbone Gryffindors were acclaimed for, she used the brass knocker and heard Dumbledore's voice invite her in.

Her heart sank when she saw the lanky figure of her new D.A.D.A. professor glaring down his very long nose at her as if she was the reason for all his troubles. He stood stiffly by Dumbledore's desk, breathing heavily as though he had just run a race.

"Do sit down, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said.

She soon forgot her trepidation, finding it impossible not to turn her head back and forth and twist around in her chair to take in all that surrounded her. From a golden perch by the door, a large bird with fiery plumage and a sweeping, glittering tail regarded her with a rather human intelligence—that had to be Fawkes: A phoenix! She had never been one of the chosen few invited up here before this—that had been only Harry's privilege. Wouldn't Ron be jealous? Yes, he would—a good reason not to tell him anything even if the note hadn't urged her silence.

She itched to examine the softly whirring silver implements on the nearby spindle-legged tables. She longed to get a closer look at the books and curios cramming the shelves. She thought she recognised some of the items from illustrations in _Hogwarts: A History_. The silver sword with a ruby-encrusted hilt in a glass case looked like the one that had belonged to Godric Gryffindor himself. She gazed eagerly at the figures in dozens of portraits lining the circular chamber who stared back at her just as curiously.

"Headmaster, if Miss Granger can be torn from her gawking, could we please get on with this?"

She could feel herself reddening and had to clench her fists to keep from making a sharp rejoinder. Why did she ever waste any sympathy on this man?

Snape rubbed his left forearm as if it ached. His scowl in her direction was doubtless meant to intimidate, but his vulnerable pose softened her a bit, nevertheless.

"My dear, I have called you both here for two reasons. First, we find ourselves with an urgent need to research curses, and I suggested to Professor Snape—"

"Well, if it's only a suggestion, Headmaster," Snape said silkily.

Dumbledore quelled him with a look. "—that you would make the ideal assistant, especially considering that your position as Harry's confidant means you could be trusted in"—Snape huffed at that, but Dumbledore ignored it—"matters of great sensitivity. Furthermore, precisely because you will become increasingly involved in delicate affairs after coming of age, I have asked—"

"Asked?" Snape choked out.

Dumbledore reached towards Snape and gripped his arm, lightly shaking him, "—asked Professor Snape to train you in Occlumency."

She slumped back in her chair stunned. _Oh, wondrous… hours upon hours of the little time I'd otherwise have free for studying, spent with the nastiest professor to ever grace Hogwarts. Kill me now._ But also, she had to admit, he was one of the brightest, and the one who presented the most intriguing puzzle. She could learn so much from him. _Oh, God, but it shan't be his secrets I'll be learning—it's __my_ mind he'll be rummaging through.

Snape came around and perched on the edge of the desk, so close to her that their knees were almost touching. He gazed down at her intently, and when she wouldn't meet his eyes, tilted her head up with the tip of one finger firmly on her chin. His finger was icy cold, and even his brief touch made her shiver.

"The Dark Lord, or Potter for that matter, won't have to read her mind. Your face, Miss Granger, is as a book—"

"—where men may read strange matters."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I do read things other than textbooks," she said a little testily.

He surprised her with a small smile that had real amusement and none of his usual mockery. "Apparently." He sighed. "Are you aware, Miss Granger, that you could get me killed with one careless word to the wrong person? Not that such an outcome would concern you overmuch, but it does tend to give me pause. Just you knowing that I am an Occlumens—"

"I already knew, Harry told me all about your lessons."

Snape flinched as if she'd hit him, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly for a moment.

"Who else knows?"

"Just me and Ron. I don't think Harry would have said anything to anyone else, and neither of us go around telling others about his business."

"Miss Granger, my being an Occlumens is the one thing I cannot spin or explain adequately to the Dark Lord. He knows I'm a Legilimens because I foolishly boasted to Lucius Malfoy about it when I was a boy, but the Dark Lord thinks me untrained and unable to resist casual attempts to read my mind. Being an untrained Legilimens would make me more vulnerable, not less, to him. Of course, certain members of the Order know." He glanced back reproachfully at Dumbledore.

"Occlumency, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, "is not in the curriculum, it will not be discussed at length in any book. It takes an exceptionally skilled Legilimens to train someone in Occlumency and that raw talent is even rarer than the ability to be an Animagus or Metamorphmagus. The actual ability cannot be learned, you are either born a Legilimens, or you are not. Training in the mental arts is jealously guarded by only a few pure-blood families."

"It also," Snape said tightly, "makes both trainer and trainee uniquely vulnerable to each other—the Dark Lord murdered the woman who trained him."

"Harry never said anything about this."

"As you may recall, Potter's lessons happened during the Umbridge regime. The Headmaster wasn't around to explain, and Sirius Black was present when I told Potter he needed Occlumency lessons. The atmosphere became rather… charged. And after that, I'll admit I spoke as little to Potter as possible about matters not directly related to his training. His rather brief period of training. I supposed I assumed… I was in error," Snape admitted wryly.

She was astonished he'd admit as much in her presence, and was just as surprised to see Snape and Dumbledore exchange rueful smiles. Then again, when had she ever had a chance to see Snape without Harry around? Harry was as different around Snape as Snape seemed to be away from Harry. They definitely brought out the worst in each other.

"Come to my office after your classes end tomorrow, Miss Granger, and we'll set up a schedule." Snape slid off the desk and gave Dumbledore a small bow, then inclined his head in her direction. "If you'll excuse me Head_master_, Miss Granger, I have some eleven-year-olds to settle down. Every year after what they hear on the Hogwarts Express… well, especially any Muggle-borns sorted into Slytherin can't be blamed for fearing they're going to turn into snakes overnight. Or even be eaten alive by one."

After Snape left, she turned back to Dumbledore, unable to keep the shock out of her voice. "Slytherin Muggle-borns?"

"Yes, well, my dear, after all these centuries there are hardly enough pure-bloods to fill the ranks of any House. Note we nevertheless keep having a full quarter of the incoming class sorted into Voldemort's House, himself a half-blood. Naturally, given the prejudices there, half-bloods and Muggle-borns in Slytherin tend to keep their ancestry a closely guarded secret."

"Salazar Slytherin must be spinning in his grave."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Ah, but Professor Snape would tell you that those were very different times. People with our gifts were being persecuted, even slaughtered. There were good reasons to be careful not to give away our secrets beyond those born to the magical tradition. Making ourselves known to people who had been raised to consider our entire race a diabolical evil often put the very children we were inviting into our world in great danger."

"And is this what the lessons are about? Keeping secrets? I don't understand why it would be necessary for me in particular to learn Occlumency."

"Don't you, Miss Granger?" He peered at her intently through his half-moon glasses, absently stroking his beard with his good hand. "I'll confess, I had more than one purpose in mind, or at least a hope, when I asked Professor Snape to train Harry in Occlumency. Professor Snape has already spoken of a certain vulnerability such training creates on both sides. It is more pronounced when both teacher and student are Legilimens, but is nonetheless an intimacy that can bring two people much closer."

"Harry and Professor Snape?"

"I know it may be hard to see at times, and there are things I cannot share with you, Miss Granger, so I expect you to take this on faith. Harry Potter and Severus Snape have much in common. Much more than Harry knows or that I could share with him at this time. And not just in background… there are other things. I hoped they could recognise them in each other, that it would bring understanding." Dumbledore smiled rather sadly. "It was a foolish hope, perhaps, but the hope of an old man who dearly loves them both. So I am trying again, and I am being as honest with you as I can. I need you to be a bridge—between Harry and Professor Snape."

"I don't know if I… I can… "

"I know Severus Snape is not an easy man to like. His pride is as touchy as a Hippogriff's, and he has more defences than a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But he's a good man, Miss Granger, well worth helping. And Harry will need him."

"I think he hates me."

"Do you hate _him_, Miss Granger?"

For some reason, she had a lump in her throat that made it hard for her to get the words out. "I do not hate him. I respect him."

"As he does you."

Her head shot up at that.

"Truly, he does respect you. He thinks you are 'the brains of the operation' and that if I can't see that it's because of the chauvinistic tendencies of a man born in Victoria's reign." Dumbledore chuckled. "He believes you brewed Polyjuice Potion in your second year, that it had to be you who came up with the idea of the D.A., who tricked Umbridge into the reach of those centaurs and…" Her face must have betrayed her, for Dumbledore's eyes widened. "Oh my. Well, you have to admit, my dear, he does seem to have taken your measure quite well. Better than I. Mutual respect is not so poor a beginning."

"He'd never open up to me."

"Only you can do this, Miss Granger. It would hardly work with Ronald Weasley, now would it? I only ask that you try—but not too hard. Don't force it. Professor Snape does not like being forced. The incident with Harry and the Pensieve… was unfortunate. Do you know the fable of the wind and the sun?"

"The one where they make a bet about who could get a man's coat off of him? The wind blows and blows, but the man just grips his coat tighter; the sun gently shines down at the man until he is so warm, he removes it?"

Dumbledore beamed at her. "Exactly so."

She couldn't help answering that smile with one of her own. It was as if Dumbledore, himself, was the sun shining down on her. But then, at her next thought, her smile died. "Is the D.A.D.A position really cursed? Why then—"

"Give it to Professor Snape? There are reasons I can't tell you right now."

"But—"

"It's not invariably fatal, child."

"It was for Quirell. Crouch is worse than dead. Lockhart went mad, so has Umbridge, last I heard."

"She is recovering. And Professor Lupin survived it as well."

"If leaving in disgrace could be called well."

He smiled, as if pleased with the protectiveness in her voice. "Ah, Hermione, don't you see? All the more reason he needs you—it's for his own good." He looked insufferably pleased with himself and even winked at her. "I must ask you to let the lessons, and your assistance in the research, remain our secret."

"I don't like keeping secrets from Harry. Harry trusts you, you know." She couldn't keep the reproach from her voice.

"No one likes keeping secrets from a friend, but sometimes they are necessary, and I must ask you to have faith that I know what I am doing, to trust me."

Hermione nodded her head. She had been anxious to be treated like an adult. And here she was, having more than enough responsibility placed on her shoulders to feel like there was a heavy beam laid across them. The Headmaster dismissed her, and she made her way to the Gryffindor rooms hoping she wouldn't meet anyone along the way. The one thing she was bursting to discuss with a friend was the one thing she dared not tell.

Once back in her room, she set herself to unpacking her things. She found the grimoire in her trunk. Staying away from it all summer had only made her eagerness to read the entire book more intense. She dared not bring it into the common room, so she changed into pyjamas and lay in her bed reading.

Even after lights out, she made a tent of her covers and read by the light of the tip of her wand until Lavender Brown complained that sound of Hermione turning the pages was keeping her from sleeping. Her mind racing, she put the book away but was too keyed up to sleep. She tried calming herself by listing the different curses and jinxes she had read about in her head. The grimoire even had clear instructions on how to cast a Confundus Charm! Hermione had tried looking that up ever since Snape had mentioned it in her third year and had found only tantalising clues in the Restricted Section. She yawned and stretched. Burrowing under the covers, she smiled sleepily as she hugged her pillow. She couldn't wait to start her sixth year at Hogwarts tomorrow.

As she finally drifted into sleep, her last contented thought was that things were just getting interesting—even if she had read that living in interesting times was the oldest and most malign of curses.

o0o

_**to be continued**_


	5. Chapter Five Ground and Centre

Disclaimer: © 2006 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to **Djinn** and **Bambu** for their betas!

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**GROUND AND CENTRE**

o0o

Snape strode to his office, returning Adrian Pucey's greeting with a slight nod of his head. The Slytherin would most likely finish at the top of his class this year. Pucey was popular even outside Slytherin—except among the Gryffindors, of course. Snape had even recommended Pucey for Head Boy this year, but despite his urging, Dumbledore had chosen among his Gryffindors again—never, in all the years Snape had taught here, had the Headmaster chosen a Slytherin for Head Boy or Girl. Yet such a gesture had never been more needed.

The way the Headmaster had waited until the last minute to break a seven-year run of Slytherin wins of the House Cup with a clap of his hands—when the Great Hall had already been decorated with Slytherin green and silver—left little doubt among the House that the-powers-that-be at this school held them in contempt. Four years and more had passed since then, but the incident was neither forgiven nor forgotten in Slytherin House lore.

The surreptitious recruiting among the other Houses last year for "Dumbledore's Army"—and the Slytherin's pointed exclusion—had not been lost on the them, either. It was taken as a sign of how they could expect to be treated outside the walls of Hogwarts once they left, and Snape was sure it had been one factor in their easy recruitment into Umbridge's forces. It became another line separating "us" from "them" inside the school; a line he feared would carry over outside the school in the war to come.

"Professor Snape?"

Snape turned and stopped to let Zabini catch up to him.

"We found Ned Valiente. McLaggen cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on him, then hung him by his heels in the broomshed."

"He's all right?"

"Yes, sir, though I can't answer for McLaggen if Ned ever catches him alone."

"Hopefully it'll teach Mister Valiente not to be caught alone himself next time. I've told all of you time and again—you need to watch each others' backs. Especially with the likes of McLaggen trying to succeed to the Weasley twins' crown for the Gryffindor banes-of-our-existence."

Zabini flexed a hand then rubbed it. Snape felt a sick rage fill him as he caught sight of the word "insolent" etched on the back of Zabini's left hand. Part of Umbridge's legacy. Valiente had "cheeky" inscribed on his own hand.

It had been Zabini who had first told Snape how the odious woman had punished them with a pen that drew its ink from their own blood, cutting into skin and branding them with their offence. Zabini had complained to Umbridge on behalf of his younger House-mate after he'd seen the marks of abuse. As a result, he had drawn a punishment of his own. As far as Snape was concerned, Zabini had earned the Prefect's badge with those actions.

Zabini took his place in the queue of those sixth-years waiting for his approval of their schedules, and Snape disappeared into his office.

He hated the very smell of a new school year. The sharp smell of crisp parchment and the lemon oil scent wafting from the newly polished ebony desk of his office offended him with their false promise of fresh starts.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening. Bulstrode bounced on her heels as she entered his office. Her face glowed as she gave her Prefects badge a little pat. A bit of that glow dimmed as she stood by his desk. She wrung her hands, then put them behind her back and stilled her fidgeting with visible effort.

Snape had summoned the Slytherin members of the Inquisitorial Squad headed by Draco soon after their confrontation with Potter's groupies in Umbridge's office. Bulstrode had actually had the gall to boast they had gained him the House Cup, as if she were a cat dropping a mouse at her owner's feet. He had reduced her to tears within seconds.

He gave her a slight smile and nodded towards the chair to indicate she should be seated. He tapped her file. "These O.W.L. scores can take you wherever you wish to go. I believe you said you were interested in a Ministry career?"

Bulstrode rewarded him with one of her rare smiles and nodded.

Before she'd left on the Hogwarts Express at terms end, Snape had taken her aside. He'd wondered aloud how welcome she'd be in her circle if her ancestry became more widely known. Such a pity, he'd told her, that being a half-blood would limit how far she could rise—among those who cared about such things, of course. "Your background—as unfortunate as it might be seen within Slytherin, can only help at the Ministry. If you play it up, it should soften any… prejudices you may find there against our House."

"I want to thank you, sir—for giving me this chance." Once again she stroked her badge, her harsh face softening.

"You convinced me you are genuinely repentant." Unlike Pansy Parkinson—which is why, taking a chapter from Dumbledore's book entitled "Second Chances," he'd sent Bulstrode the badge instead. "I am confident you are one to learn from your mistakes."

Bulstrode left and with every student who followed, Snape felt the tension in his gut coil tighter as he anticipated his meeting with Draco.

Once Umbridge had left Hogwarts, he had done his best to isolate Slytherin from Draco. Snape had stripped Draco of his Prefect's badge in the hope that Zabini could prove an alternate centre of gravity, and that he could peel Bulstrode off from Draco's little gang. Now, Snape feared that, as a result, he'd so isolated and humiliated Draco he'd lost any influence he'd had with him.

Unfortunately, he'd met with the Slytherins in the squad straight from visiting Minerva in the hospital wing. She'd looked frail, making too slow a recovery after the assault—another casualty of Umbridge. For the first time, Draco had borne the full brunt of Snape's acid tongue. Snape had thought he'd have this year to make up for it, to rebuild a relationship with a chastened Draco on a new footing. Draco's early initiation into the Death Eater ranks had caught him unawares.

The Headmaster didn't want to precipitate a crisis until they were ready. Draco would require careful handling.

So Snape said nothing as Draco, after entering, draped himself over a chair without being invited to sit, then casually leaned over and dropped the class application they were supposed to discuss on the desk with a flick of a wrist.

Snape sat regarding the smirking Draco through steepled fingers and cursed himself for a sentimental fool. He'd put his life on the line for this whey-faced brat. No, not entirely… for the "cause." He tried not to let the inner sneer reach his face. Despite all he'd needed to do since the Unbreakable Vow, Snape had found too much time to brood over the choices he'd made that had led him into the trap Bellatrix and Narcissa had sprung on him. He felt duped now when he looked at this youth on whose behalf he was supposed to betray Dumbledore.

Snape kept staring, unblinking, until the blond stiffened, then straightened into a respectful, straight-backed posture. Snape kept using his eyes to pin him to the chair until Draco fidgeted—only then did he shift his gaze down and snap open a folder.

"I had always thought you had a good mind. Your O.W.L.s would tend to confirm it, even as your behaviour last night made me think myself sadly deluded."

"You're not going to tell me you care about sainted Potter?" Draco asked with a lazy drawl.

Snape stiffened, hearing disrespect in that tone. He sharpened his voice into a cutting edge. "I care about you conducting yourself with some sense. I care that your little pantomime at the Great Hall last night was lost on no one in the room—in other words the entire school."

"So what? It's not as if Potty wouldn't go crying to Dumbledore."

"_Professor_ Dumbledore, Mister Malfoy." He curled his lip. "Potter did not. One should actually wait to be accused before all but confessing."

"Guess he didn't want to give away that he'd put his nose where it didn't belong." Draco shrugged. "What do I have to lose? You gave away my Prefect's badge."

"It never belonged to you but was held in trust. A trust you abused."

He looked at Draco, knowing the long sleeves of his robes hid the Dark Mark, and felt the bitter bile of failure rise in his throat.

"I'd think you'd approve of what we did," Draco said.

"Tut, tut, Mister Malfoy. We've already discussed this. One should be very careful in one's alliances. And you chose the wrong side in Umbridge. Note, the losing side."

Draco crossed his arms and his eyes narrowed to slits. "And Zabini chose the right side? Defending some Mud—"

"Don't." Snape kept his voice quiet and at its most dangerous, and from the way his eyes widened, Draco knew he'd gone too far. "You know how I feel about this. The hat's decisions are never to be questioned—it is as if Salazar Slytherin was making the choice himself. No more is the ancestry of anyone within Slytherin open to question. Mister Valiente is one of us."

Snape had drawn a line from his first day as Head of Slytherin. Whatever a Slytherin did to a student of another House would be ignored as much as possible—but anything done to any member of Slytherin was done to them all.

It was the best he could do within the limits of the role he had to play as loyal Death Eater. He couldn't openly encourage his Slytherins to refuse the Dark Mark or directly challenge their blood prejudices. As Head of House, he used every tool at his disposal—detention, the Prefect's badge, the competition for the House Cup, even Quidditch—to manipulate alliances and habits of mind. He tried to encourage his charges to think for themselves and to have enough pride in their achievements to disdain calling anyone "master." He had hoped that given other options, other chances, his Slytherins wouldn't be so desperate to choose the way he had.

"You knew—you knew of her sadism to fellow members of your House. And still you joined her Inquisitorial Squad—whilst a _Prefect_—dragging your friends in with you." And that, in the end, was what Snape found unforgivable.

Draco had no answer—not that Snape expected one—other than to shift uneasily in his chair. Snape had made clear last term how he felt about Draco's excuses about "Potty" and his "army."

He took a sip of coffee, trying to give himself time to calm down, only to find it as cold and bitter as his mood.

He'd seen himself in Draco—who he'd seen being terrified and terrorised by Lucius as a small child. Draco's father had thought nothing of flogging house-elves in front of his own son, sending the message of what happened when those in Lucius' power did not meet with his approval. Narcissa had never intervened but had tried to make up for it by spoiling her son outrageously. It was clear that Draco could no more do right in his father's eyes than he could do wrong in his mother's; they'd given their child no standard worth his efforts.

As a result, any praise, any approval Snape had carefully doled out to Draco had been absorbed like a sponge, or as he saw it now, a bottomless hole. His efforts with the boy had been useless—an utter waste. No, boy no longer. Nothing so easy, so malleable, existed in the young man before him.

"And you do have more to lose," he said softly. He chose his next words carefully, hoping to goad Draco into saying something revealing. "What if you were expelled? I doubt… a certain mutual acquaintance would be pleased that you lost access to Hogwarts."

"Who'd expel me, _you_?" Draco's nostrils flared. "Yeah, right. You never did care about _me_, did you? You're just like the rest. You wouldn't have dared treat me so if Father was still—"

Snape stood up, and the sound of the chair scraping against the floor stopped Draco mid-sentence. When Snape leaned towards him, Draco cringed and pressed himself into his chair as if he wished he could disappear into it. Snape looked at eyes the colour of water, and which he'd once thought just as transparent to him, as they widened in evident fear. The only sound in the room was their ragged breathing.

He wished he dared used Legilimency, but Draco would sense it. He'd always taken Draco at his word about any confrontations with the "Chosen One," and dismissed Minerva's claims that his "favourite student" was everything Snape had accused the Potters, father and son, of being. She'd told him that the boy was a coward and a bully, and had accused him of being blind to Draco's faults because Snape couldn't see beyond his prejudices against Potter.

He felt welling inside him the same dangerous anger that had caused him to end the Occlumency lessons with Potter, before Potter had become The-Boy-He-Murdered-With-His-Bare-Hands.

Snape gazed at the pale, pointed face before him and at last, saw someone just like his old nemeses, Sirius Black and James Potter: an arrogant, spoiled, privileged, bullying pure-blood.

His hand shook as he tapped Draco's application with his wand to turn it into an approved schedule. He hoped he could keep his rage out of his voice. He couldn't afford to forget the danger Draco represented, both in his own right and from those who might follow him.

"You are dismissed. Send in Mister Nott next, if you please, Mister Malfoy."

He felt a pang at the slam of the door and had to push down an urge to call Draco back.

Nott, at least, wouldn't present a problem. He was a pure-blood, but one canny enough to steer clear of commitments one way or another. Nott would wait until the war's end, then get to the head of any victory parade and pretend he was leading it. But what of the rest of Slytherin?

Snape had done everything he could to limit the damage of Slytherin's increasing estrangement from the rest of the school. As with Bulstrode, he had tried to hint to Slytherin half-bloods they'd do better within the establishment than in any new order. The few Muggle-borns he'd sniffed out in Slytherin he had been even blunter with—making it clear to them that their first time at a Death Eaters' meeting would be their last. The pure-blood faction, however, was another matter. He had tried to make sure that where Draco Malfoy went, most of Slytherin wouldn't follow.

Snape refused to concede any of them to the Dark Lord, even Malfoy's two bookends, Crabbe and Goyle. But, it was hard, terribly hard, to steer his charges away from darker, more crooked paths when "people of the light" seemed determined to shove them off the narrow, straight road rather than share it with them.

In two hours classes would begin for the term. Snape rubbed his aching forehead. He was barely halfway through the meetings with his sixth-years, and he already felt exhausted. He had been borrowing too much time lately with the use of his Time Turner. Even with a dream catcher, overuse of a Time Turner didn't make for restful sleep. And when classes ended for the day, thanks to the Headmaster, he'd have Hermione Granger—"cleverest witch of her age"—to deal with. To top it all off, Poppy, convinced he had been taking artificial restoratives too often, had charmed the lids of every jar and vial of Pepperup Potion in his stores to start howling and inform her if he took so much as a drop.

It was going to be a long day.

o0o

"Inside," Snape said, ushering in his second class of the day. He watched the students uneasily scanning his little gallery of horrors. _This is what it will mean if you choose the Dark—or confront it._

He'd carefully chosen those pictures as well as the members of Slytherin he'd tasked with helping him put them up this morning. He had seen Terence Higgs and even Vincent Crabbe swallow hard at some of the pictures and his carefully dropped comments about each. That had been heartening. The gleam in the eyes of Gregory Goyle hadn't surprised him—for all that most saw Crabbe and Goyle as interchangeable, he believed Goyle to be by far the more malicious and stupid of the pair.

He had watched the reactions of the first class he had taught just as carefully. The look of glee and anticipation in Malcolm Baddock's eyes meant the third-year would bear watching—malicious and brilliant was an even more dangerous combination.

This was a different group all together: upper years studying Defence Against the Dark Arts at the N.E.W.T. level. _Or in some cases studying just the Dark Arts._ But he couldn't afford to stint the rest of the class because of that concern. He looked over the Slytherins, noting they composed over half of the class—almost all his sixth-years. Crabbe and Goyle naturally hadn't made the cut. He quickly skipped past Draco's face and the anger still smouldering there.

He noticed Granger automatically taking out her text from her bag. "I have not asked you to take out your books," he said. He didn't intend to teach this class like Umbridge—or any of the other D.A.D.A. teachers for that matter—out of a book. It wasn't how they'd do on their N.E.W.T.s that concerned him.

"I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention. You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe." _Merlin help us_. He wondered if the Dark Lord had cursed the position not simply out of spite, but to ensure exactly this: that those not trained in the Dark Arts by their wizarding families would be at a crucial disadvantage. Even most families in the magical tradition eschewed the Dark Arts—aside from the Death Eaters, of course.

He tried not to think of the fate of those who had preceded him in the position—often doing as much damage to others as themselves in the working out of the curse. Maybe that was another layer the Dark Lord had put in?

"Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities." _If it can even be said any of them had a method_. "Given this confusion, I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject…."

Potter, of course, had his celebrity status to give him a leg up with the examiners in the practicals—he had been the only non-Slytherin to get an "Outstanding" in the subject in his year. Parkinson had been scathing in her complaints about how only Potter had been given a chance at extra credit.

He circled the room, sweeping his gaze assessingly across the face of each student as he spoke. He couldn't help but note how the non-Slytherins grouped themselves around Hogwarts' resident celebrity. Every single one of those in the other Houses who'd obtained a mark high enough to continue at this level came from Potter's D.A. Snape felt a little bit of trepidation and even grudging admiration for Potter when that occurred to him. The way Potter led was not unlike the way the most-famous Gryffindor student rode a broom—a natural who had no idea he was a prodigy, never had to work for it, and didn't even appreciate it as a gift.

Snape launched into his prepared speech, hoping he'd get through to at least one of the dunderheads why they were here and what they could—and could not—learn in the bounds of the classroom. He stalked about, his voice low, keeping the tension high to rivet their attention.

Snape saw Potter's face contort, suspicion written in every line, at his words about the Dark Arts. Not unlike Draco, Potter's face held a sullen resentment but with none of the other's admixture of fear and respect to hold him in check. Granger sat quietly next to Potter, her expression rapt, and for a moment her warm brown eyes met his own and locked before he could tear his gaze away.

_She understands._

His voice took on a caressing tone almost against his will.

As a teacher, you lived for those times when you saw something spark because of what you said. For a moment you'd feel a bond with the one person who truly grasped every shade of your meaning and for that instant it would be as if that student was the only one in the room. But because of who this student was, and who he had to be, he could never acknowledge the connection. It galled him that it was _she_, a Gryffindor and crony of Potter, with whom he most often felt that fleeting communion.

Parvati Patil asked a question about Inferi, and Snape used the resulting pause after his answer to sweep back to the front of the class and face them.

He asked about nonverbal spells, scanning the class desperately for someone, anyone, willing to answer the question other than Granger. She bobbed up and down whilst waving her hand frantically in the air, seemingly unaware of the sullen looks and smothered snickers her actions inspired even among her House-mates.

Snape suppressed a sigh and called on Granger through gritted teeth. She gave him exactly the kind of answer Snape had come to expect from her—textbook perfect—but never daring to speculate beyond. He ignored the look of hurt on Granger's face as he dismissed her answer as mere rote knowledge, but shot Draco a quelling look when he heard the blond snicker.

He couldn't resist a dig at Potter in his next remarks and found himself a tad taken aback at the expression he caught on the young face. There was a fierce intensity—face it, hatred—in that defiant glare he hadn't quite seen there before… before Black's death. He looked away from Potter, feeling uneasy at the undercurrents he felt in the room.

He set the class to divide into pairs and made a sweep about the room, correcting a wand hand here, making suggestions as to mental focus there. Bulstrode was the first to manage a nonverbal spell, an Impediment Jinx, against Zabini. She performed it as she did everything—cleanly and without any fuss that would draw attention to her. He gave her a cool nod and whispered a "well done" into her ear, and she surprised him with a grin. Two smiles in one day were more than he'd ever seen from her. He continued on—any other teacher would have rewarded her with not just a "well done" but a good number of House points as well—but his Slytherins knew better than to expect it.

He scowled at the irrepressible Ernie Macmillan, who greeted him with a nod and smile as he and Hannah Abbott practiced on each other. The Hufflepuff Prefect had been outstanding at Potions and never anything but pleasant to everyone regardless of House. It was impossible to not like him and hard to hide it. Snape had to give this pair credit—unlike almost the entire room, including his Slytherins, they weren't trying to cheat by mouthing the words—even if, so far, they had proved far from successful at nonverbal spells.

It took all his self-control not to jump in with a cutting remark when he came to the next pair. But this young wizard's magic was so unpredictable startling him could cause him to blast his partner into tiny bits—and he didn't really hate Granger all that much. So Snape made sure he approached from the front.

"Longbottom."

"Sir," Snape's worst student of many years replied, stopping in his efforts in order to wipe his brow with a sleeve.

Snape had felt nothing but relief, even delight, when he'd believed that with only an "Acceptable" he would not have the cauldron killer in his Potions class in the coming term—though also some pride that, with his teaching, Longbottom had managed to pass. Snape had needed to bite back a groan when he'd realised he couldn't deny Longbottom a place in D.A.D.A.

"Breathe, Longbottom. Focus your awareness on your centre and picture the spell you're trying to cast."

Even with his personal Boggart looming over him, Longbottom showed none of his old nervousness, perhaps because he'd been battle hardened by the fight in the Department of Mysteries. Maybe the hat had known what it was doing, after all, when it had sorted Longbottom into the "home of the brave."

Snape could see the concentration on Longbottom's face and a glow begin at the tip of his wand. He actually had to bite back praise for Longbottom's efforts, even if the dolt still couldn't keep from muttering the incantation under his breath. He scowled at Granger's knowing smile. You'd think it was she who could read his mind.

When it was her turn, it took Granger far less time than Bulstrode to manage a nonverbal spell—a Jelly-Legs Jinx. When he caught her slow smile at him, he realised he hadn't managed to keep his approval off his face. And he was supposed to be teaching her to be impenetrable? He mentally shook himself, realising he'd spent far too long watching the Gryffindor witch and moved past the pair without a further word.

He next stood, arms crossed at his chest, observing the "Dream Team." Given the volatile dynamic he sensed in the room, it might be better to skip over the paired Weasley and Potter. But no one needed the training more. And stretching Harry Potter to his limits and beyond was his calling in any case. It wasn't as if anyone else wanted the position, particularly lickspittles like Slughorn. Snape grew frustrated watching Weasley going purple in the face in an effort to cast a nonverbal jinx at Potter.

"Pathetic, Weasley," Snape said. "Here—let me show you—" He quickly drew his wand on Potter, producing from the startled youth a yelled, "_Protego_!"

The shield spell was stronger than Snape had any reason to expect, and it threw him off balance. He felt a sharp pain as his shin connected with the desk, and the impact sent a jolt through his spine. As he righted himself, he saw Bulstrode and Zabini—and surprisingly Granger—begin to move towards him in concern, and he stayed them with a slight shake of his head.

"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing _nonverbal_ spells, Potter?" He breathed deeply in and out, pushing back the pain and putting his anger on the shortest of leashes. Gods, Potter had gotten strong. Maybe he had earned that "Outstanding."

"Yes," said Potter through gritted teeth.

"Yes, sir," Snape said, his voice low and menacing. He was tired of the brat's insolence.

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor," Potter answered smugly.

Snape saw green eyes glitter back at him with malice. He didn't doubt Potter felt happy to have come up with a clever comeback for once. It was the kind of remark worthy of his father—though James would never have baited a teacher. He had to admit that at least the junior Potter had chosen a chancier target than a solitary, unprotected outcast.

Not that he could let go this challenge to his authority. He could imagine the smirks behind his back and thought he had heard a quickly suppressed titter along with the gasps at Potter's nerve. What most troubled Snape though, after his thoughts early this morning, was the reaction of his Slytherins to Potter's taunt: Bulstrode looked murderous; Zabini was clenching and unclenching his fists; and the rest of the knot of Slytherins stood stiffly looking no less angry and offended—even Draco.

Snape didn't flatter himself that he was some kind of beloved figure to the Slytherins—but he was their Head of House and whether Potter realised it or not they took an insult to him from the Golden Boy personally and very, very seriously. His imagination conjured up these two sides fighting each other across a battlefield in deadly earnest, and he felt a chill pass through him, raising gooseflesh.

"Detention, Saturday night, my office. I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter… not even 'the Chosen One.'" He then dismissed the class.

Granger had the grace to appear embarrassed. She shot him an apologetic look as she hurried past him out the door, and he did his best to gift her with his most venomous glare in exchange.

Perhaps that would scare her off from coming to lessons tonight? If she didn't show up, surely the Headmaster wouldn't insist he continue? He snorted. Considering his luck so far today—and Granger's thirst for knowledge whatever the price—not bloody likely.

o0o

"Not a good day," Snape whispered to himself, leaning against his desk as he wiped blood off his split lip with a handkerchief.

He heard a tentative knock on the classroom door. _Granger_. He'd forgotten about the lessons. "Enter."

He looked up at her gasp.

"What happened, Professor?" She pointed to his jaw where no doubt he was sporting a spectacular bruise.

"A first-year happened to it. No creature in the wizarding world is more dangerous."

"You're teaching duelling—to first years?"

"Young as they are, the times require it. And a simple _Expelliarmus_ is one of the easiest spells to learn—well within a first-year's abilities with practice. And yet," he said dryly, tapping his temple with a finger, "as we both know, it is one of the most effective defensive spells."

Granger blushed a vivid pink, revealing she knew exactly the incident he was referring to. She moved away from him and turned to the pictures on the wall, probably to cover her embarrassment. He doubted she could be enjoying the display.

Snape used Granger's distraction to silently cast a _Revivas_ and felt suffused with new energy. Poppy wouldn't approve. He'd be near collapse once the charm wore off in a couple of hours, but once they were finished with the blasted Occlumency lesson, he'd retire to his bed. Over time and much use, such spells also took their toll on one's health. But then Snape and the matron had very different perspectives. She wanted him to act like a long distance runner and pace himself, whilst, since making the Vow and taking the Defence Against the Dark Arts position, he knew himself to be a sprinter with the goal post in view.

"Why hang up those horrible pictures?"

"Because, Miss Granger, I'm not going to sugar-coat what you'll be facing." He felt a surge of irritation at her, at the Headmaster, at himself. Snape hadn't prepared himself properly for this lesson, and the Pensieve was back in his office. Still, he wanted to get this over with, and after all, a Pensieve hadn't protected him from Potter's snooping, rather the reverse. "Come here."

He saw surprisingly little trepidation in the way she approached and calmly directed her gaze at him. And none of Potter's distaste at being anywhere near him showed in her face. He released a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. He tried to keep in mind the Headmaster's admonition that Granger was not the enemy.

"You did well with the nonverbal spells this morning," he said. "It bodes well for your chances of mastering the mental arts." His lips twitched upwards when her eyes widened at the unqualified praise—the first she'd ever heard from him. "Last night, you deliberately tried to communicate with me mentally?"

"Yes, sir."

Snape had cursed himself for telling the Headmaster about the incident and giving the old meddler the idea of the lessons. "And you succeeded. Have you ever before had any reason to suspect you're a Legilimens? Any thoughts or emotions that seemed not your own… visions or dreams from another point of view?"

She shook her head, and he looked intently at her, tapping his chin in thought.

"Try again. Something simple."

She stared into his eyes, whilst he tried to keep his mind receptive without making an active effort to read her. After a few moments, he frowned. Although gazing into her eyes—for once eyes not dull with stupidity or narrowed in hostility or widened with fear—was pleasant enough, this was getting them nowhere. He shook his head, and she sighed and bit her lower lip.

"I was trying for the same image. A compartment on the Express."

"You were distressed last night? Worried about Potter?"

"I was frantic, actually."

"Perhaps that explains it. I expect Potter told you some details about Occlumency? And no doubt you hunted down any mention of it and Legilimency you could find in the library."

"I know eye contact is usually necessary for Legilimency, that Hogwarts is warded against it to some extent." She furrowed her forehead. "That doesn't make sense, how did… well, Volde—"

He shook his head sharply.

"You-Know-Who…how could he affect Harry the way he did?"

"Not even the Headmaster is sure of the nature of their connection. It could not have been Legilimancy, strictly speaking, that the Dark Lord used to intrude into Potter's mind. That may be part of why Occlumency was so ineffectual, although the principle should have remained the same. In order to guard your mind from intrusion, you must empty yourself of all feeling—emotions fuel mental connections. If your 'friend,'" Snape put all the derision of which he was capable into the word, "had any self-control at all, it should have helped."

Her face quivered, and he could see her jaw lock.

"It can be hard to control your emotions—when deliberately provoked," she answered, her words clipped. At his stare, she added, "Sir."

"And when you are not? When you are in the quiet of your own room getting ready for sleep? Can you honestly tell me you believe Potter tried? Actually practiced?"

"Did you, sir? Did you try your best?"

He turned and moved away from her, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. He wasn't proud of his failure with Potter and had spent many hours pondering how he might have done things differently.

He turned back to her and, ignoring her question, said in his most neutral teaching voice, "The trick to clearing your mind is to bring to it the same mental focus you apply to every basic defensive spell. Didn't you learn to ground and centre properly? Any decent first- or second-year Defence Instructor…" But of course she hadn't had one—and finally a pattern in his classes that day became clear. Those who'd had Lupin in their first or second year had been better able to manage spells that needed a strong mental focus. Still, he could at least fault the werewolf for not seeing that the upper levels needed remedial instruction in one of the most basic magical techniques.

"I've read about it."

"There's no time tonight, but I can see I'm going to have to sit down with you to go over the syllabus, and find out exactly what all of you learned in D.A.D.A.—and, most of all, what none of you learned."

"I'd be happy to do that, sir." She was fairly bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You know we practised shield spells a lot in the D.A. I'm sure that's why—"

"Not. Tonight."

She gave him a crooked grin. "Sorry."

"With the art of Occlumency, you could resist _Veritaserum_; you could shut down the feelings and memories that would contradict you and lie right to the Dark Lord's face—although it's best to keep as close to the truth as possible. Especially if you were to pursue an extended acquaintance." He grimaced. "Which I would not recommend."

"Is that why you always refer to him as the Dark Lord? You have to live as close to the reality you present to him as possible?"

"Partly. One point to Gryffindor." He smirked. "Oh, that's right, I had forgotten, since these lessons aren't official, you can't earn any points. Such a pity."

"Does that mean I can't lose them, either?"

"I could still give detention," he said, his voice syrupy-sweet. He quickly tightened his lips against the grin that threatened when he saw the way she wrinkled her nose at him. He could almost forget she was a Gryffindor given the way she acted.

"Occlumency can strengthen your resistance to _Imperio_. It can even take you away from yourself so that _Crucio_ cannot break you. Though there are dangers to using it that way. You know about the Longbottoms?"

She nodded, swallowing.

"I'll review ground and centre in D.A.D.A. tomorrow. In the future, I'd prefer to meet in my office—every other day after classes should be fine for now for these lessons. We'll work out the details of your research project Wednesday night."

"I wasn't sure where…"

"Same as before, down in the dungeons. Professor Slughorn may now teach Potions, but he has not condescended to make them for Hogwarts' ordinary use, and my preparations are superior to some mere apothecary's."

He saw her face tighten at the mention of Potions and wondered how that had gone today. He felt a bit pleased that it didn't seem a pleasant thought. He'd assumed she would have quickly become one of Slughorn's favourites, and was sure his former students would not miss him in Potions—until they started revising for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.

"I have time tonight to give you a taste of what it would be like to have _Legilimens_ cast on you. Try to resist my efforts to break into your mind. It's similar to resisting _Imperio_. Brace yourself. _Legilimens_!"

She did better than Potter had on his first—or many other tries. But sweat beaded on her face as she strained to resist his efforts, even though he was holding back much of his power. He increased the intensity, and suddenly his mind was filled with a series of images.

_She was shrinking against the wall, eyes screwed shut; she could tell the Troll was getting closer from the sound of his club connecting with the sinks, bringing them crashing down… She was creeping about in the corridor near the library when she caught sight of the Basilisk in her mirror and froze… She was screaming as Lupin transformed into a werewolf, and, with a burst of light, Pettigrew sent Ron and Crookshanks to the ground in a heap… She was sobbing as she tried to push her way through the crowd to Harry who was lying on his side, clutching Cedric's body to him… She was standing in a doorway of Grimmauld Place as his own black clad form slid to the floor, the smell of his blood filling her nostrils… She was fighting in the Ministry when Dolohov launched a streak of purple flame that slashed across her chest and…_

She crumpled to the floor and started crying.

Well, that didn't quite go to plan, not the Headmaster's, anyway. This was the girl the Headmaster thought could save him? Looking at her, he was forcibly reminded of the last time he'd seen Narcissa, but the comparison was to Granger's benefit. Narcissa cried beautifully, as if she had used a charm and practised in front of a mirror. Granger's face was blotchy and her nose was running. She looked pitiable, but not like someone trying to mould him with tears.

"I don't want to die," she whispered almost too softly for him to hear.

"Then just stop being friends with Potter, you silly girl. You don't have to leave the country. Stop painting a target on your back!"

"I'm not letting down my friends."

"Ah, yes, it being so vital to the cause that you fight by their side. You've hardly ever had an encounter with the enemy where you didn't wind up in the hospital wing."

Snape was going to continue laying into her for her foolishness but her next gesture stopped him. She ran fingers up and down in a line across her chest. He knew exactly what she was tracing—he had worked with Poppy to identify Dolohov's curse, so to find a potion to heal her as well as leave her unmarked. Her action reminded him strongly of his reflexive rubbing at his Dark Mark. A too-revealing gesture he had yet to train out of himself.

He looked at the vulnerable lines of her throat and the hollow at its base, picturing a slicing hex tearing into her smooth skin. His heart contracted, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe.

He had failed Albus, Draco, so many others in his life. What good could he possibly do her?

Her sobs were turning now into little hiccups. Snape sat down beside her on the floor and extended a clean handkerchief without looking at her. He kept a good supply in his pockets. One of the tricks of the trade for a Head of House.

"Or at least stop snivelling. That only hangs another sign on your back—one that says 'kick me.' Let me assure you, among the people you'll be facing it shan't gain you any mercy." He spared a glance at her face then looked away. "It never did even among the kind of people that are your peers," he muttered.

"I know that."

"Of course. What don't you know? You know the terrible thing about know-it-alls, Miss Granger? It's that they're unteachable. You may be everyone else's pet, but you're my nightmare." He swallowed hard, then got back up in one fluid movement and glared down at her. His voice rose with his growing anger as he thought of the recklessness of her and her friends. "The object of war, Miss Granger, is not to beat your breast or cover it with Orders of Merlin. It's to not wind up in the hospital wing. It's to put the enemy underground whilst you walk away. You have all the bravado of a fighter and none of the skill."

"Then teach me. Isn't that what you do?"

He grunted. "Among other things."

He extended his hand in a rather challenging movement. She looked up at him for a long moment, as if deciding whether to accept his assistance. Perhaps remembering that she had just asked for his help after all, she took his hand, and there was nothing grudging or delicate about her grip as she used it to lever herself up.

She took her time about letting go, too—until a too-familiar burning sensation caused him to break their clasped hands. He bit the inside of his cheek and gripped his arm to keep himself from crying out.

His Dark Master was in rare form tonight judging from the intensity with which the Mark burned. _Perfect. Just absolutely the perfect way to crown this day._

His reviving spell should wear off not long after he reached the Hogwarts boundaries to Apparate. Which, he mused, he might be able to turn to their advantage. If he could find out what was being planned, yet seem to be taken so ill he couldn't participate… He just might be able to return quickly enough to give warning. Or more likely gain himself a _Crucio_ and a night lying unconscious on the hard ground…

He noticed her staring where he clutched his forearm and watched her eyes narrow in speculation then widen in realisation. "You're being summoned. I remember hearing how the Mark would burn when You-Know-Who calls." She stepped closer and studied his face. "I didn't think it would hurt so much."

"It's… variable."

"You'd think he'd be worried he'd give his people away. Not very subtle." She was practically babbling. He could hear the fear in the squeak of her voice. For him? That shocked him as much as anything that had happened today.

"I'll be sure to tell him you disapprove." He looked at the misery written on her features and took pity on her. "I'm sure the worst I'll suffer is one of his more tiresome lectures."

"Harry… Harry saw him _Crucio_ one of his own Death Eaters—on the night of the Triwizard championship. Harry had visions where You-Know-Who punished those of his followers who'd displeased him terribly."

"It really is a pity Potter couldn't bother to drop a word about that in his press releases—it might stop some of our students from making an unwise career choice."

She gripped his arm tightly just below where the Mark throbbed. "I thought you said you wouldn't sugar-coat things."

"I've survived over a year of this, and I have no reason to believe tonight will be any different."

"I'm not sure I find that reassuring."

He shook his arm from her grip. "I have to go. If you could let the Headmaster know? The password should be the same. If he's not in his office, tell Pomfrey."

He saw her stiffen at that. She wasn't stupid. Despite his reassuring words, he knew she could see the implications behind the matron being his second choice of person to be alerted.

"Let off. I'll be fine," he told her.

As he left her, he cursed the Headmaster—the last thing he needed was any… attachments.

o0o

_**to be continued**_


	6. Chapter Six Jinxes

Disclaimer: © 2006 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to **_Bambu_** and **_Djinn_** for their betas!

And a special thanks to my WIKTT chatmates, for special assistance and for putting up with my whining.

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Jinxes**

o0o

Hermione fluffed her pillow vigorously whilst she damned the Headmaster under her breath. Why should she lose sleep over Snape? He'd shaken off her concern, so why couldn't she shake off her worry as easily?

_Because no one else seems to care._

She supposed some of the Slytherins might give a damn what happened to Snape, though who knew with that sycophantic lot. Dumbledore cared if she were to take him at his word—and one other certainly cared. Unable to find Dumbledore in his office, she had gone to the hospital wing to seek out Pomfrey. The way the usually phlegmatic witch had swallowed hard, and the slight catch in her voice as she'd dismissed her, had told Hermione all she needed to know about how serious a summoning was and how deep Pomfrey's concern went.

How did Snape do it? How could he go out there time after time and risk himself when all he ever got back from Order members was bare tolerance, if not outright disdain, and, from Moody, open suspicion and not-so-veiled threats of a cell waiting in Azkaban if he failed? How could Dumbledore be so sure of his loyalty if, as she suspected, Snape got far more respect and had far more potential for reward on the other side, as well as having far more to fear from them for a discovered betrayal. According to Sirius, it had been future Death Eaters who had been Snape's friends and defenders when he'd been a student. Moreover, according to Lupin, those in the opposing faction had been Snape's tormentors. It had been from Lupin she'd heard some of the details of the Pensieve incident that had ended Harry's Occlumency lessons, finally clicking what happened last term into place. Harry himself had never spoken of it to her, and from Lupin's own account of the Marauders' behaviour Harry had witnessed, it was little wonder why.

What really drove Snape? How in the world was she going to be able to reach h—

"Granger, so help me," Lavender whispered as Hermione pounded her pillow with her fists in frustration, "Getting your beauty sleep may not matter to you. I mean, why bother? But doesn't that big brain need to rest?"

Hermione's grimace threatened to turn into a grin as she caught Crookshanks sharpening his claws on Lavender's favourite angora jumper—a bright fuchsia of course—foolishly laid out on the back of a chair. She turned the incipient grin into a saccharine smile. "Far be it for me to stand in the way of the pursuit of beauty—it is, after all, all you have. I'll sleep out in the common room."

Taking her time, she put on her robe, tucked the pillow under her right arm, then took the duvet off her bed and folded it neatly over the same arm. She needn't hurry out of worry about having the last word. It must have taken Lavender twenty minutes or so to come up with what had passed for wit—it should take at least that long for the blonde bint to come up with a comeback.

Crookshanks had got the jumper down from the chair and was stretched out on it—getting the clingy knit full of cat hairs no doubt. She grinned and bent down for a quick pat of his head as she passed.

She was surprised to find Ginny in the common room curled up in the wingback chair near the fireplace, stroking Arnold, her new Pygmy Puff, in her lap. The purple bit of fluff gave a high-pitched squeak when Hermione came into view.

"I couldn't sleep," Ginny said, "you, too?"

Hermione murmured, "Yes," and took the seat opposite, tucking her legs under her. Hugging her pillow and duvet to her, she closed her eyes and let Ginny's words wash over her.

"Not in the mood for chatting?"

"Sorry, feeling a touch raw tonight."

"Your eyes are puffy. You've been crying?"

She shook her head sharply. Not really meaning to lie, but not wanting to talk about it. "You were saying about Michael?"

"Just that I didn't expect… all his mates are so cold to me."

"You split up with him—no one takes that well—you'd have to expect his friends to take his side." _Especially since you took up with Dean Thomas afterwards quicker than you can catch the Snitch—that wasn't so much a rebound as a ricochet._

"I thought they were my friends, too, and being my friend didn't seem to stop you from taking Michael's side—"

"Oh, Ginny, I'm sympathetic, really…"

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence then. What could she say? _Ginny, I like you; I like Harry, but not you and Harry? I was really hoping Michael would work out and wouldn't be yet another attempt to get Harry to notice you're not a little girl anymore?_ She felt responsible in a way. But she'd meant her advice to Ginny to date others to help her move on—not as a grand strategy or distraction on the way to becoming Ginny Potter—Hermione could hardly blame Michael Corner for being sick of competing with the glamour of The-Boy-Who-Lived. Whatever Ginny might say to others about the split being about Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw in Quidditch, from what Luna let drop, it was an argument about who was Gryffindor's best Seeker.

"Ginny, how do you find Professor Snape?"

"Snape?" Ginny tapped her lips with a finger as if she needed to deliberate. "Hmmm… I think that under that cold, forbidding outside, is… an even colder, icier, frostier inside."

Hermione giggled. "I meant as a teacher. I was just wondering if he's less hateful away from Harry. If anyone, other than the Slytherins, finds him less than abominable."

Ginny shrugged. "I don't mind him as much as Ron does. I love Potions; the effects of potions are so much more subtle, yet more potent and permanent than charms. There's so much more you can do with them. I've always been one to get what you can out of a person and ignore the rest, and you can't take away from Snape that he knows his potions."

Hermione shifted uneasily in her chair. She could try to blame the glitter in Ginny's eyes, the way her expression became fierce, on a trick of the firelight, but there was something in the younger girl's voice as well when she spoke of potions that made Hermione uneasy. It was the same quality Ginny had when she spoke of Harry.

"And I'll give Snape this," Ginny continued. "He's not so bad if you don't go out of your way to rile him. Percy actually claimed to like him, not that his recommendation means much, and Charlie respected him. But then those two are the Weasley changelings. Percy, you know. Charlie, he's the quiet one among us. But between Snape and the twins—it was war. Bill, on the other hand… I hear those were the worst years when Bill started. Snape had to teach those who remembered him as a slimy, creepy—don't look at me like that, you know what everyone says—well, as a student. And after Bill repeated a certain story in his hearing…" Ginny shrugged. "I know some Ravenclaws, never mind Slytherins, who rate Snape even over McGonagall as a teacher." Ginny made a derisive sound. "But you know Ravenclaws, they're all a bit daft about such things." Ginny gave her a sidelong look. "Why the sudden interest? You seem… intense."

"No particular reason," Hermione said, forcing herself to make her voice light. "Just with him being the new Defence teacher…"

Ginny cackled. "There's already a betting pool on when and how Snape will get offed. Me, I think he's as hard to kill as a cockroach, so I'm not taking that bet—he'll probably just get sacked somehow. Mind you, I'm happy to have Slughorn for Potions from now on, and look forward to being rid of Snape. It's lovely to finally be appreciated for my talents."

Hermione looked down and hugged her pillow close, feeling both chilled at Ginny's callousness and uncomfortable because… because it had bothered her she could never get any real acknowledgement of her abilities from Snape. Sometimes she thought that's what kept Snape fascinating to her, made it hard to let go of the idea of gaining his approval. It had been pathetic how happy he'd made her tonight just by telling her she'd "done well" in class—unrequited love of a strange, if platonic, sort. The questions he asked, the distinctions he made, the way he took his class beyond the text—she no more questioned that Snape was her most brilliant teacher than she had any doubt she had been his best student in Potions.

She'd be getting no acknowledgement of that sort from Slughorn—not with Harry, of all people, as his pet. Harry! She hadn't missed that only Ron and Harry needed to borrow an old text; she knew Snape's standards and the boys' marks. Harry, along with Ron, had to have the lowest qualifications of anyone in Advanced Potions—and now he was the star.

Her face burned when she remembered today's Potions class. Not even with Snape at his worst had she felt more humiliated. Slughorn's praise of Harry's "talent"… Harry's success from _not_ going by the book—the official one anyway—made her wonder, for the first time, if Snape was right. Maybe she really was just a book on legs, and not a quill inscribing new chapters in magic.

Did she have any right to condemn Harry for using that marked-up text? At least Harry had told her about his secret weapon. She hadn't told him of her grimoire. She'd feared a bit how he'd react to her having a Dark book, which had coloured her own shock at discovering he had a dodgy book of his own. Besides, Viktor's book was simply another standard text, even if one a Hogwarts student wouldn't have easy access to—she wasn't sure what to think of Harry's.

She also had to admit that she hungered to be Snape's top student still, in D.A.D.A., as she had been in Potions. She felt reluctant to share her edge with Harry, not unless there was something tangible they could use. She may be the one Gryffindor who'd earned her place in Potions—but it still rankled that Harry had done better than her in Defence.

Hermione started at the gunshot crack of thunder followed by the hiss of rain.

"I hope it'll be one of those quick squalls," Hermione murmured.

Ginny shook her head. "Mum says I have the old Prewett weather-sense and it's never steered me wrong. It's going to be nasty like this all night—get worse even. I'm just glad to be inside and grateful no one we care about is out there."

"Yes," Hermione responded, looking away from her friend, blinking hard whilst staring at the fire.

o0o

Hermione felt uneasy when she didn't see Snape at the High Table, though she had often noticed his absence at breakfast the past year. Had that always coincided with the rare times he'd missed class over the years? She frowned. He'd never missed a day before last year—before he'd returned to Voldemort.

The owls came flying in; one swooped over to drop her subscription of the _Daily Prophet_. She tore impatiently at the string around the roll, eager to skim the contents.

Ron's voice behind her made her jump. "Latest _Witch Weekly_?"

Unamused, she glared at him as he sat down across from her.

"Do I look like Lavender?" Worse luck. She'd probably do better with Ron if she were a blonde—in every sense of the word. She flushed at the thought. Yesterday, with the _Amortentia_ potion, she'd smelled parchment and ink and leather and chalk—all smells she'd associated with the classroom and books she loved. And grass and a certain flower near the shed of The Burrow that made her think of sunshine—and Ron.

It didn't mean she was in love with him. Merlin, she hoped not. She wondered what Ron had smelled.

She felt a hand at her back, and looked up to see Harry reading over her shoulder. She looked back down and turned the page; her breath caught as she saw the article.

"No deaths," she answered. "But Mr and Mrs Campbell have disappeared—their home was trashed. Poor Winston and Clover. Winston being both a Gryffindor and this year's Head Boy might have made the family a tempting target."

"Clover?" Ron asked.

"Yes," Hermione said, dryly. "You know her; she's a fifth-year in Hufflepuff. The one you think looks like Fleur?"

Ron ears turned pink, but she felt Harry's hand dig into her shoulder, so she bit back any further remark.

Harry looked back down at the article. "No bodies found though," said Harry slowly. "Vance and Bones—their fates were unmistakable."

"Yeah," Ron said, through a mouth stuffed with kippers. She shot him a look, and his eyes glinted in amusement, but he actually finished chewing before continuing. She'd train him up right yet. "But look what happened with Fortescue and Ollivander—no one's heard from them since they disappeared—maybe You-Know-Who just changed how the Death Eaters are doing things."

"Hmm," Hermione said. "Or those missing are in hiding, perhaps—secreted away? Perhaps the Order got warning?" Because of Snape? "Wouldn't Professor Dumbledore tell you, Harry?"

He grimaced. "He's said he'll keep no more secrets from me. I'm not sure that's the same as telling me everything."

Seamus Finnegin clapped Harry on the back as he sat down next to Hermione. "That was brilliant, mate—how you stuck it to the old bat yesterday—or should I call you 'sir'?"

Harry smirked, and Ron choked on his food when he started laughing.

Hermione frowned. A bridge is what Dumbledore wanted? Maybe she could at least keep Harry from burning it right from under her. "Oh, Harry, you musn't continue baiting Professor Snape like that."

Harry's mouth twisted as he snapped out, "I didn't start it."

Hermione tactfully decided against mentioning that in terms of starting a death glare contest, yes, he had—although in a wider sense regarding their mutual animosity, Harry was right.

"Harry, you can't win. Ignore him. You can't take points from Slytherin, but he can take points from Gryffindor, and if you don't care about that, how about detention?"

"I survived Umbridge's."

"Fine, then, if that's how you prefer to spend your Saturdays."

"She's right, you know," Ron said. "Bleeding irritating about it—but right. You can't win against a teacher. You don't see me poking at Snape and I hate the bloke just as—"

"No," Harry said, stabbing at his kipper, "you really don't." For a long moment Harry glared at Ron, until Ron finally ended the impasse by returning his attention to his food. "It's just… wrong—what Snape gets away with… someone has to stand up to him."

"That doesn't always have to be you, Harry," said Hermione as gently as she could.

"Doesn't it? Who else?" the "Chosen One" answered. His voice was so tight, his eyes so bitter, Hermione felt her heart clench.

o0o

Snape was at his desk when they filed in—no ominous greeting at the door or flinging it open for a grand entrance. For the first time in her tenure at Hogwarts, Hermione was actually cheered to see Snape in class. That lasted five minutes, until he called on her, and as usual mocked her for her perfectly correct answer. After, of course, having searched the room in vain for anyone else who'd dare lay themselves open to his venom by a raised hand.

Even his Slytherins rarely ventured any answers. Not that they tended to in any class. They were a spookily quiet bunch when they weren't busy taunting Gryffindors and Muggle-borns—you never knew what went on in their heads.

Snape did make up some ground with her, though, when he lashed out at Parvati and Lavender for their whispers and accompanying titters. Oh, Gryffindor just lost two points? Each? Pity. Yes, she was being Snape-ishly petty. But then those two were seated right in back of her, and had been gossiping just loudly enough to be driving her mad. By now you'd think they'd know to indulge in Binns' class, never Snape's. A lifted eyebrow from Snape when he glanced in her direction made her think he'd caught her smirk.

At least Harry and Snape kept a wary peace, both refusing to glance the other's way; Harry not disguising a taunt through pointed questions, and Snape not baiting him with just as pointed asides or stress on a word or lingering look. Too poor a way of relating to even be called a beginning of a truce, really, but she'd take it.

She didn't miss how another student seemed to be doing his level best to avoid Snape's eye—even though in the past he'd always angled for a stroke of the ego at every turn. Something not right between Malfoy and Snape?

Snape went over ground and centre as promised, floating handouts to the students with a desultory wave of his wand. But unlike last class, they sat at their desks whilst Snape sat in his and lectured—not that Snape would ever fail to hold your attention. If that mesmerising voice didn't do it, sheer terror of what he would do if you were caught daydreaming would keep you hanging on every word. He did towards the end of class set them some breathing exercises—but he didn't sweep around the classroom to observe them up close as was his wont.

Hermione was halfway down the corridor after class when it occurred to her that Snape had always made sweeps of his classes—until last year. She ran back, slowing down only slightly when she entered the classroom, still breathless when she made it to his desk.

Snape's head shot up from where it had been resting in his hands, his eyes snapping open to bore into her.

"You have a question?" His voice had a coiled tension to it, as if readying to strike.

"Are you all right, sir?"

"That is none of your concern."

She flattened her mouth into a tight line and tried not to grind her teeth. She took the task Dumbledore had set her seriously. But if Snape continued to hide behind a student-teacher formality, they could keep dancing at a far distance the entire year. And she didn't think that's what Dumbledore wanted, or that she'd have that much time. Snape might find the Gryffindor way of doing things reckless, but sometimes one did have to push things, so Hermione took a deep breath and answered.

"The Headmaster has made it my concern."

His eyes narrowed to slits at that, his breath hissing between his teeth. "Oh?" He glared, flinging the single word like acid into her face, daring her to elaborate.

"He made me your assistant—"

"My research assistant, Miss Granger, not my keeper."

She lifted her chin and forced herself not to drop her gaze from those unsettling eyes. She feared if she backed down now, it would set the pattern between them forever. And after Umbridge, a great deal of the deference and diffidence she'd felt towards her teachers had melted away. She planted both palms on his desk and leaned even closer to him. "I only want to help—"

"I don't need help from some slip of a girl with delusions of—"

"Who else can you trust? Who else among the students, other than Harry, Ron, and Ginny, know of your… role here?"

Snape huffed, his mouth twisting. He leaned back and placed his hands behind his head and yawned in an exaggerated manner. "Really, Miss Granger, spare me your teenage penchant for melodrama," he said in a bored drone. "I am here—in one piece. I don't see any blood on the floor boards." He stared at her stonily for a moment, then stretched out an arm, palm down, holding his hand steady. "No shakes. That should satisfy the Headmaster when you report back to him."

"I'm not his spy—"

"No, but I am. Did it ever occur to you that seeking me out beyond what is strictly required is not particularly discreet? Unlike Potter, I can hardly have you claim you need remedial lessons to explain your tutorials." He smirked.

If he expected her to recoil at that remark, he was disappointed. She found it amazingly easy to smirk back at him, as if they had just shared a private joke. "No, no one would believe that."

His lips curled on one side slowly in the sneer that was his version of the rattle of a snake. "In any case, you hardly need any explanation—it's not as if you're the 'Chosen One.' Your moment of fame passed with your trifling mention in the gossip columns during the Triwizard tournament. No one will take special note of your comings and goings. You are of no consequence."

His snide tone tempted her to retort that more than a few would notice—that _she_ had friends. What did she have to lose? Points? Time spent in detention? She thought even that would be worth the cost to just once lash back. What else was at stake? His good opinion of her? Nothing she'd ever been able to do, or could do, would ever gain that.

She wished she could slap him. But drawing a breath to instil calm, she took in the purplish smudges under his hollowed eyes, the faint yellowish traces of the bruise on his jaw, and instead wished she could give him a reassuring stroke on his arm. She actually had to clench her right hand and force it down to her side when she realised she had, without conscious volition, reached out to do just that. She couldn't follow either impulse with Snape, and it frustrated her no end.

Ron might tolerate even the slap and manage to forgive her, though these days she worried more what he'd read into a friendly touch. She'd give Draco the slap and Harry a hug regardless. But Snape?

"Was it at least worth it?" she asked softy. Asking more than the cost to him, hoping to goad some reaction that would tell her there had been a small victory last night.

"You're unbelievable."

"Insufferable?"

Snape rubbed his eyes, then searched hers, frowning, slowly shaking his head. He fumbled about his desk and putting his hand on a slender, silver tube scooped it and the scroll of parchment underneath and slapped it down in front of her.

"This implement, known as an Indexia, is experimental—created by Takai Brothers. I have already set it to search certain key words. If those words occur in a book or periodical, the Indexia will make a soft whirring sound in its presence, the item will glow, and the title and pages of relevant passages will be indexed on the scroll. Bring the scroll and any of the enumerated items with you to my office, after class tomorrow. We will be looking into curses which cause physical injury, conveyed by objects—particularly stones, metals, gems, and items worn on the person."

"How about curses of situation—triggered by place or position."

"No."

"But—"

"I said no. Do not waste your time—or mine."

She pressed her lips against the words that might escape. It was his tone, more drained and weary than acerbic that convinced her not to protest further. She'd simply learn how to input what she required on the Indexia—and she'd damned well find the time, somehow, to research the curse on the D.A.D.A. position. Not that he deserved her caring, but she had promised the Headmaster.

He stared at her for some moments, then rummaged in the drawers of his desk for more parchment and began writing a note in his spiky hand. "This is a pass to the Restricted Section. It seems I must perforce trust you that far."

"I won't disappoint you, Professor."

"You had better not." He looked up at her, his face blank and eyes blinking uncertainly, as if he'd forgotten what he had been going to say.

She couldn't remember Snape ever at a loss for words and felt a leaden ball form in her stomach. "Are you sure there isn't anything else I could do?"

Snape's eyes drifted closed for a moment, the thick sweep of soot-black lashes stark against too-pale skin. He then seemed to gather himself, giving her a sour look. "I'm only tired." He huffed at her sceptical look. "Yes, yes, I suffer cruelly at the hand of my master—who forces me to teach Defence mornings to third year mixed Gryffindor-Slytherins followed by you lot of dunderheads. Fortunately, relief is at hand. My next class consists of Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw fifth years: Obedient. Respectful. Attentive. Hard-working. Studious. No trouble whatsoever."

An imp of the perverse caused her to clasp a hand over her heart. "I'm wounded. And do I hear a criticism of Slytherin in that?"

"Never." He ducked his head and signed the slip he had been filling out, but she thought she'd caught sight of a slight tug of his lips upwards.

If it had been anyone else, she might have suspected a sense of humour. Snape being Snape, it could only be he was contemplating some horrible retribution for her teasing. It was… unsettling not to be treated with his usual nastiness even for a moment. Which, she mused, might be why he was doing it. This wasn't just a Slytherin—this was the Head of Slytherin.

"One more thing before you go. Bring that green vial from the shelf behind me and add three drops to my tea."

"Why—"

"You said you wanted to be of help?" He quirked an eyebrow at her, and she went to the shelf to do as he asked. She caught a liquorice-like smell as she dispensed the purple liquid with the vial's dropper. There was a hissing sound and steam rose from the cup when it hit the tea.

"Pepperup Essence? Concentrated form of the potion. It's danger—"

"I know what it is. That will be all, Miss Granger."

"But—"

"Your two chums may tolerate your bossy interference—I will not. Dismissed."

The last word was almost shouted and the sheer volume made her fly to and out the door. She stood for a moment outside his office against that shut door, feeling completely, absolutely out of her depth. What was she supposed to do now? Tell Pomfrey or Dumbledore she suspected Snape wasn't taking proper care of himself? She put one hand over her mouth to suppress the laughter bubbling up at the thought, afraid it could build to hysterics.

She looked down at the Indexia gripped in her other hand. Books. Research. Revising. Making notes. Analysis. Those she could do.

Her next free period she rushed to the library anxious to try out her new toy. Madam Pince scowled at her when she saw the pass to the Restricted Section, her eyes widening as she read. The librarian then turned her gaze on Hermione, looking her up and down suspiciously. Hermione knew such passes were rare—no doubt the witch thought it was a sign of the apocalypse that a Gryffindor was presenting such a pass signed by Snape. But then Hermione believed Pince would be happy if no one ever read a library book—at least if it meant touching one.

Hermione started the first time she heard the whirring sound, reminiscent of the sound of the implements in the Headmaster's office. A book on a shelf near her feet glowed green—she wondered if Snape had programmed that colour in to the device, and when she grabbed the scroll he'd given her from her bookbag she saw green words in a spiky script appearing before her eyes:

1. _Orion Prewett-Black, Most Malicious Maladies 49-69 (Borgin Books 1897)._

She peered closely at the Indexia but could find no clue how it worked or how Snape had set the key words or even what those words were. It still seemed a featureless silver tube. He must have charmed it—and somehow she thought there wasn't much chance of him telling her how.

By the time her free period was over, she had ten books to reduce magically to fit them into her bookbag. That didn't lighten the load, but she couldn't care less as she left the library with her treasures.

She got only a glimpse of Snape later that day. A group of Gryffindors facing off against a group of Slytherins. Hardly anything new, other than, for once, neither she, Harry, Ron—nor Draco for that matter—were involved. Snape clenched one hand about the collar of Bulstrode's robe, looking like a master restraining his dog by the scruff of the neck. Bulstrode screamed at McLaggen, a seventh-year Gryffindor who had orange fur sprouting on his face and, in-between his own strained shouts, mewed like a kitten. Zabini stood behind Snape. The dark-skinned youth rolled his eyes, then reached up to speak softly into the ear of his Head of House. Snape nodded, then yelled over both belligerents.

"I'm going to count to five. If by five, I can still see a Gryffindor along this corridor, you'll start losing points for your House. Ten points for each second. One… Two…"

Snape looked straight at her.

She ran.

The next day at lunch she heard that someone had cast a complex trap jinx. If a Gryffindor hissed at a Slytherin in the corridors, they'd be a meowing kitten for a day, Ravenclaw—a cackling chicken, Hufflepuff—a squeaking mouse. Ron laughed meanly at Dean's comment that McLaggen blamed Bulstrode.

"Everyone knows she's a stupid cow," he said.

"Certainly," Hermione couldn't help saying, "except, unlike _you_, Ron, she's in the all same N.E.W.T level classes as I am—including Arithmancy and Runes."

Harry, seated across from her, nudged her foot and jerked his head up and to the side. She twisted about on the bench to see Bulstrode standing right behind her, a poleaxed look on her face, before the girl hurried on to the Slytherin table.

She didn't understand the impulse that had made her speak up for a girl who had never been anything but thoroughly unpleasant, even brutal to her. She could still remember the large girl's suffocating bulk pinning her against the wall in Umbridge's office. Just this morning in D.A.D.A. class Bulstrode's face had indicated her great pleasure at getting a stinging hex through Hermione's guard. Unless her new focus on Snape was bleeding into how she saw all the Slytherins? Ron gave her reason to regret her implied jibe at his intelligence by inflicting on her one of his master sulks for the rest of the day.

In any case, the hissing stopped.

o0o

Hermione entered Snape's office for the next Occlumency lesson with a mixture of dread and excitement. Actually, that wasn't a bad description of how she felt encountering Snape under any circumstances. Occlumency was a whole new discipline, and Snape was the only book open to her, but she didn't want to make a habit of landing weeping at his feet.

He spent the better part of an hour teaching her breathing exercises and mental imaging. And when he tried _Legilimens_ on her, it was with a light and slowly building touch she was able to push back.

"Why didn't you teach Harry this way?"

"For any number of reasons. I wasn't trying to teach Potter any of the subtleties, and we didn't have the time to lay much groundwork. I needed him to shut down his emotions completely, and having discussed the matter with the Headmaster it was thought we might as well take advantage of the existing dynamic… Let us just say the Headmaster agreed with me that if Potter could stand against me, he would have a fair chance against the Dark Lord."

"You deliberately provoked him. Tried to evoke strong emotion?"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "It did not take much effort on my part."

"If you'd explained what you were trying to do, Harry would have understood—he's not stupid…"

"And if he'd 'understood,' it would have been that much harder to provoke his response."

"You can't bully Harry into learning. That doesn't work with him."

"Thank you, Miss Granger, for pointing that out—I might have missed that otherwise. Though pray tell, what does motivate Slughorn's latest star student?" She flinched and his eyes glinted at her response. "Cat got your tongue? That seems to have stung—_Legilimens_."

_Bastard._

It would have been easier if he'd stayed the bastard all through, but a different Snape emerged when they poured through the books she'd brought. Oh, he cut her short when she rambled off on a tangent. But he did listen, and it was fascinating to see him make connections she'd have never thought of—such as directing her to hunt down tracts in the Magical Creatures section, since a withering curse could possibly be the result of using microscopic magical creatures to convey the malady.

"In a case such as that, couldn't Muggle medicines be modified, enchanted for a remedy?"

She got a wide smile out of him with that response which sent her heart soaring. She wished she could coax that expression out of him every day. It looked incredibly good on him.

But then he had to ask, "Why don't I ever get that kind of answer out of you in class?"

Hermione's answering smile died. "I… want to be correct—"

"So you play it safe and don't dare go beyond what you've read on the printed page. It is that important to you to appear the authoritative know-it-all in front of your peers? Hmm."

"Hmm?"

"Just thinking it's obvious why you weren't sorted into Slytherin. Ambitious people generally know that you have to risk failure to gain success."

"Aren't you always the one accusing Gryffindors of taking terrible risks?"

"There is a difference between flirting with danger and risking failure. You can learn the already discovered by rote perhaps, but you create nothing without repeated failures. No one succeeds without their share of embarrassing mistakes—that is what creation and experimentation is about."

"True even for you?" she asked in a teasing tone.

"Especially true for me," he answered, his voice and face at his stoniest.

"Are you saying if I gave such a speculative answer in your class you wouldn't use it to humiliate me?"

"Miss Granger, I wouldn't hesitate—I have a reputation to maintain—I'm simply saying that if you want to achieve great things, you shouldn't let a nasty git of a teacher stop you. Can you tell me you venture anything beyond the text in other classes? Sprout's perhaps? Vector's?" His searching look was far too shrewd; Hermione didn't think Legilimancy really explained the way he could read her—far better, it seemed, than Harry or Ron could, for all their years together.

At one point he followed her line of reasoning so well he completed her sentence—they even both exclaimed, "Karpellos," at the same time, in reference to where you could find a treatise on curse-binding.

"Jinx. No return," she said softly under her breath, not expecting him to hear or get the Muggle reference—Ron never did with such phrases—but Snape surprised her with a quick turn up of the lips, even if he continued on without waiting for her to release him by saying his name.

She never realised before how wearying it was with the boys, being used as if her brain was a utility they plugged into as needed, and having to explain everything in tedious sequential steps, only to have them tune her out before she'd finished two sentences. With Snape, he got to Z before she had to explain B. It was frightening, really.

But wonderful.

That meeting set the pattern for the rest of the week, and Hermione found herself rushing to Snape's dungeon office the next day with more research, even without a scheduled Occlumency lesson. Sometime during that meeting it occurred to her that somewhere along the way she'd dropped saying "sir" at the end of almost every sentence, and he had allowed that to stand. It didn't exactly put them on a first name basis, but considering how punctilious Snape was with Harry about correct address, she considered that good work indeed.

When Ron complained he'd only seen her at meals this week, she blamed the new schedule, but Ron's evident annoyance didn't blunt her determination to spend every moment with Snape that he would allow her. She found herself hurrying to fulfil her other obligations—it suddenly seemed unimportant and rather silly to write essays an inch, let alone a foot, more than assigned.

Snape was still scant in his praise compared to the other teachers, but every once in a while he'd give her a nod or roundabout compliment, and she'd see him give a start, as if he wished he could take it back. She thought she must be wearing him down, that in this setting, away from the classroom and at the end of the day, she was seeing a Snape closer to what his Slytherins saw and seemed to respect.

That Saturday, Hermione sought Snape out again in his office with a fascinating article on Egyptian curse-breaking as her pretext. She tried hard to hide that she was in pain with the kind of ailment that made Ron turn red to the ears if she mentioned it.

Without a word Snape brewed a cup of what she thought was tea, then abruptly, with a clink, put it down by her hand and went on to speak of the latest research he'd found on Gaulish curses. She automatically brought the cup to her lips. Chamomile. Ginger and Unicorn root. Evening Primrose. Hops. Other things she couldn't identify—a true potion, not just an infusion. The heat radiated from her stomach, melting the pain away.

"Thanks—"

"I don't need you wasting my time with female troubles."

She had to endure hours of his most biting remarks. She thought, at one point, she'd prefer the cramps—but it dawned on her then, that this was one of the terms of engagement. Snape could be considerate, even carefully sympathetic, as long as she didn't acknowledge it with so much as a twitch on her face. Otherwise, she'd pay for five minutes of kindness with hours of scathing comments. Honestly, trying to learn Snapelish was harder than mastering Latin.

o0o

_**to be continued**_

**A/N**: In America if two people say something at the same time you say "Jinx"—according to the LJ community **hpbritglish**, it's a little different in Britain—if two people say something at the same time you say "Jinx, no return" and the first person saying it has to then say the other person's name before they're again allowed to speak.  



	7. Chapter Seven Hexes

Disclaimer: © 2006 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to **_Bambu_** and **_Djinn_** for their betas!

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**HEXES**

o0o

Snape sat in the staff room sipping his coffee and barely feeling it scald his tongue in his resolve to hex the next person who asked after his health. Trelawney had predicted his demise twice monthly since he'd joined the staff—it was too early yet to know if she'd increase the frequency, but Hooch's newfound concern was particularly irksome.

"Why thank you for asking. My Slytherins do have a touching confidence I can break the curse. Indeed," he said slowly, giving Hooch a pointed look, "despite it existing before my birth, some speculate I cursed the position myself." His smirk implied such an assumption was only his due and quite within his power. "So, do keep that in mind in placing your own wager."

Her sniff and glare only told him he'd hit precisely on the reasons for her inquiry.

He didn't know whether to be hurt or reassured by Minerva's snort of laughter.

"Oh, stop scowling at me, Severus."

"What, Minerva, you're not concerned for me?"

"I have faith in you and Albus. He wouldn't give you the position if he hadn't found a way to break the curse, and you wouldn't take it if it wasn't to your advantage."

"I'm touched."

"I'm joking. Well, not about Albus—I'm sure he has a plan."

"Oh, I'm sure of that, too."

She did a bit of a double take at his tone. "Moreover, Filius is setting all his N.E.W.T. level classes to independent study on curse-breaking."

"I'm heartened. I believe the last time he did that was for Lupin when he came here like a lamb to—"

Minerva slapped him sharply on the shoulder. "Stop that. We could have always overlooked…"

"After forty years?"

"Why then, did you accept the position? Why did you lobby for it then, year after year?"

"Why? Because it's the one way to release me from the torture of first-year Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions. Fear not, Minerva, I'm sure Slytherin's next Head of House will be less vexing—even without the boy wonder as Seeker, you might win Quidditch matches."

Snape stiffened as Slughorn walked in.

Minerva squinted at him through her square spectacles. "Severus, behave…"

"Me? Why, Minerva, why would I be anything but civil to my old Head of House?"

Snape almost spat out his coffee at Slughorn's hearty slap of his shoulder. Being touched by those spindly fingers in that hairy slab of a hand gave him the feeling of having an insect crawling over him.

"Ah, Severus, you've trained up some fine pupils for me."

Snape smiled thinly. "Yes, that was my entire purpose."

"I never expected—"

"No, you never did expect much… from me. I admit, compared to celebrated students of yours like Lockhart… among others…"

"My boy—"

"I am not… a boy…" He stopped before finishing. Minerva had gripped his bicep tightly enough to bruise. _Certainly not your boy._

Slughorn looked at him sharply, and for the first time, Snape felt as if Slughorn was taking his measure. As if it had never occurred to the man before that he would be worth a second look. Slughorn had to be aware of Snape's reputation in Potions, the contributions he'd made in everything from Blood-Replenishing Potion to Wolfsbane. He suspected Slughorn even knew of the contributions he'd made that would never make _Ars Alchemica_—the kind for which he'd received a reptilian smile. Slughorn's web of contacts stretched throughout the continent on both sides of the divide between Light and Dark. No doubt it galled Slughorn that he'd been wrong that Snape would amount to nothing. Of course, it could be said he'd amounted to far worse than nothing.

Slughorn's smile didn't so much stretch as ooze over his face. "Severus, Severus, we are colleagues now. Let's begin again."

Snape gave Slughorn a cool nod, then turned away. He did his best to ignore Minerva's shake of the head. Slughorn moved to the adjacent corner to sit by Sinistra. Snape would prefer her as a successor to him over Slughorn. He doubted she was aggressive enough to fight hard for his Slytherins—her concerns were as rarefied and remote as the stars that were her subject; she was almost more Ravenclaw than Slytherin in that. But, at least, Sinistra didn't toil to ingratiate herself with the most-likely-to-succeed-and-be-influential set even among the other Houses. She wasn't the sort who would favour non-Slytherins over the less distinguished among her own charges when they needed her most—the way Slughorn had.

He sank deeper into the well-padded chair. He felt too exhausted to deal with Slughorn and the issues he brought to the fore. The Dark Lord had summoned him last night for the second week in a row, which didn't fit the usual pattern during the school year. Something was stirring. The Dark Lord was usually more sensitive to Snape's position and knew it was unwise to draw suspicion to his spy. The unusual summons made the oblique way he had been questioned all the more ominous.

Snape had felt the gossamer probe of his mind—so subtle he wouldn't have known but for Dumbledore's training. His task was far more complex than what he had attempted to train Potter for, or even what he was training Hermione for. He couldn't simply shut the Dark Lord out; Snape had to partition his mind and shift his thoughts whilst allowing the Dark Lord in. The Dark Lord had been all fatherly concern in his manner, and it had been all Snape could do to not flinch at the slit-nosed face peering so closely into his own. He'd rather be _Crucio'd_. It was easier to take and far less perilous.

He should have picked a less comfortable chair. He didn't dare fall asleep. It was his job at staff meetings to be the bastard and speak the bloody truths no one wanted to hear. Such as that a werewolf who couldn't be trusted to take his Wolfsbane Potion didn't belong near children. (Let alone that Lupin failed to mention that his dear friend Black was an Animagus—Black, who all, including Lupin, had thought a murderer, and who had been stalking Potter.) But he felt so drained that it took all his concentration just to keep his eyes open.

Hagrid came in, ducking his head in order to fit through the doorway. Even after teaching Magical Creatures for three years now, he still entered the staff room as if doffing his hat. He had a wide-eyed look, like he couldn't believe he belonged here by right. His joy evident, Hagrid beamed at Snape, who shifted in his chair. Despite Hagrid's hearty friendliness, Snape always felt ill at ease with him.

He knew Hagrid shared the usual Gryffindor prejudices and wouldn't hesitate to declaim about shifty Slytherins even to his face—"exceptin' yerself, of course, Professor," Hagrid would always add. Snape couldn't even take pleasure in using his tongue to chop Hagrid into little bits in response. It just wasn't sport the way it was with Minerva or Trelawney. Taunting Hagrid bounced right off and back to him somehow.

Pomona Sprout brushed his arm with her hand and gave him a warm smile before finding her own place by the window. He didn't usually like to be touched, but even when she'd been his professor as a boy, she'd never paid attention to that, treating him like one of her own as no other teacher had. That made it impossible to scoff or sneer at her concern the way he had Hooch's.

Snape's heart thudded a bit as Dumbledore strode in, robes swooshing with his passage, moving without a bit of stiffness. Snape hadn't seen him the whole week, and after what had happened the last time the Headmaster had gone Horcrux hunting… Dumbledore gave him a reassuring smile, but with a slight shake of the head: no harm done, but no success, then.

Dumbledore had returned safely. With that worry erased, Snape's body too felt released. He couldn't keep the heat of the nearby hearth, and the drone of the voices, from lulling him to sleep.

He felt a hand shake him gently awake. "Severus, my boy, are you all right?"

Snape shifted in his chair and blinked up at Dumbledore. Everyone else had left. Snape winced, massaging his neck trying to work out a crick. "You're one to talk." Dumbledore's colouring looked healthy, though. "You do look better. So you took my potion. Or perhaps you asked Slughorn."

"He is my Potions teacher. You are my Potions Master."

Snape couldn't keep his whole face from flushing with pleasure.

"It takes so little at times to make you happy, my boy."

"It's amazing how little happiness I get, then, other than from blasting Pomona's roses and the odd Quidditch game Slytherin manages to win these days."

"How is Miss Granger coming along?"

"I can tolerate her."

"Really? That well? Splendid. And given she's not run to me yet to beg off…"

"She's a Gryffindor. She faced a Basilisk with only a mirror to protect her. She doesn't scare easily."

"And you tried."

He sighed. "Not as hard as I should have."

"You like her, then." Dumbledore's smile was smug.

"Headmaster, really." But he did like her. It wasn't just the absence of the contempt he generally got from Gryffindors, or the absence of the fear he got from even Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Unlike his Slytherins, she didn't look to him to solve all her problems. Instead, she acted as if she genuinely wanted to help him. Nor had it been lost on him how she'd sought him out in the past week, the pleasure that had lit her face when she'd brought something new to him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had spent time with him—made time for him—because they enjoyed it.

"Is it such a terrible thing—to make a friend?"

"She's less than half my age." That sounded like a flimsy excuse, even to him. But it was the easy response.

"And I'm nearly four times yours. Strange how that never gains me much deference, despite your proper use of titles."

"She's my student and, thanks to you, my assistant."

"And your ally—you know very well she's no ordinary student."

"Ah, my mistake. I took Hogwarts for an institution of learning. Besides, I'm not in the habit of letting—"

"People get too close?"

"It's not wise to let anyone so close they can spot… inconsistencies."

"Anyone for whom that would be dangerous—for them or you." Dumbledore rested a hand on his shoulder. "I do appreciate what it's cost you, working hard all these years to move up the ranks of the old Death Eaters, gaining their trust, stopping the antics of those who saw themselves as Voldemort's successor even before his resurrection. But Miss Granger knows what you are."

"And that makes her all the more dangerous. Oh, I don't doubt her loyalties, or even her discretion, but her ability to dissemble is still deplorable."

"Quite, she doesn't lie well. Is that what's so dangerous? Or is it that you don't have to lie to her? Play the double game as you must with Slytherin, or even with those among the other Houses we need to remain in doubt of your loyalties. You're so used to scorn or sycophancy you don't know what to do anymore with honest liking. Good gracious, Severus, what happens after the war? I won't be here."

Those blue eyes searched him, and Snape looked down at his hands as if with great interest, no longer being able to bear seeing the old man's concern. Dumbledore squeezed his shoulder tightly, but Snape shook his head and refused to look back up.

"My boy, how long has it been since you even had a familiar?"

"It would hardly be fair. I really only have the time and energy to take care of myself."

"And a rather poor job you're doing of it from what Poppy tells me."

At that, Snape leapt to his feet and circled to the back of the chair, clutching the top edge. "Poppy is an interfering, insufferable fussbudget."

"Who cares about you in spite of your best efforts. The thing about friends, Severus, is that they go both ways. Yes, they require nurturing, but they're also there for you, as you have been for me."

"Ah, yes, I so greatly appreciate my debt to you and what is required of me by your friendship, Albus," he said, deliberately using the Headmaster's name as he so rarely did. "I'm sure our dear, sweet Hermione would as greatly benefit from my friendship. So it is, I know, a tragic failing on my part."

Dumbledore frowned, and slowly shook his head. "She needs to learn to trust you. All three of them need to trust you."

"They'd be fools to trust me based on what they know."

"They're fools not to based on everything they know already!"

He felt only bitter amusement at Dumbledore's fierce look. Snape doubted he'd ever been defended by the Headmaster with half so much vehemence to Potter's face. Besides… "Even if true, after certain events… I doubt Miss Granger has the kind of influence you claim for her. She can barely get those two to do their homework."

"You've given her more credit than that in the past."

Snape huffed. "Or that her influence would be in the direction you assume. Miss Hermione Granger is a force to be reckoned with in herself, not simply as Potter's little friend. You've never taught her. You don't know the leaps she can make, and you've never been able to credit… She is dangerous. You said Miss Granger all but admitted that she was behind Umbridge's… discomfiture. That alone… If some old-fashioned notions about her sex cause you to believe that Hermione Granger will be a softening or mitigating influence on Potter… I think you may very well be mistaken."

The very prospect caused tightness across his chest and a hollow feeling to fill him. He doubted he'd be able to complete her education in Occlumency in time to trust her with their secrets. If he did as Dumbledore asked, she'd be as likely to cast a hex or curse him herself as stay Potter's wand-hand. If it came to that, he might welcome her curse.

"She is very much a Gryffindor, a champion. You only have to hear her on the subject of house-elves…"

"Perhaps I should ask her to knit me a sock, then? Two socks to free me from two masters?"

"Ah, Severus, I never meant to enslave you, but set you free at last."

Snape moved towards the Headmaster and dared look him in the eye. "You demand too much of all of us." He felt nearly a traitor for saying that. Dumbledore did ask for more, expect more from Snape than anyone had—but that was rather why saying so made him an ingrate. That same quality had caused Dumbledore to take the risk of freeing him from Azkaban, training him, trusting him. No Slytherin would have done that. That was the Gryffindor in Dumbledore. The foolish and terrifying capacity to expect and draw more from a person than they ever thought they'd have to give. Dumbledore's face softened, and Snape knew that meant Dumbledore had read him all too well.

"All of you manage to give more even than I do ask. And I demand what I do because the times require it of each of us. If I could take your part upon myself, I would. Nor am I solely depending on Miss Granger. I've chosen Arthur as my successor to the Order—"

"Arthur? Not Minerva? Are you even going to tell her?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "She needn't be involved at this point."

"Albus you need to warn her—"

"We're not discussing this." Dumbledore shook a blackened finger at Snape's face, then dropped his withered hand abruptly as if the reminder of his very limited time appalled him.

The curse was advancing. Barely noticeable, but it was now an inch above Dumbledore's wrist bone.

Snape forced himself not to stare, but scowled. "I suppose I should be grateful you didn't pick Moody. He'd already get started on jabbing a poppet of me with needles. I can't imagine even Arthur—"

"I've already spoken to him and—"

"Oh, that must have gone well. Could you picture what an Order meeting on the matter would be like? I intend to sacrifice my life for Severus Snape, all in favour—"

"Arthur understood. He is, after all, a father. Once, I explained—"

"That it's all for Harry—"

"It's not _all_ for Harry. Why do you find that so hard to accept?"

"You are a master Occlumens. I've let you into my mind. There is no secret of mine you do not know, but what do I truly know of you?"

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "If you do not know me, no one does. I have shown you all that I am, Severus, light and dark, in a way that Minerva could never see or accept."

"She could accept it, old man, if you'd give her half a chance. You've always underestimated her."

Dumbledore sighed and his shoulders slumped. "It's too late for that now."

Snape moved to Dumbledore and laid his hand lightly on the old man's back, giving him an awkward pat before dropping his hand to his side. "Now who's the self-pitying dunderhead refusing to let anyone come too close?"

Dumbledore gave him a faint smile. "Come with me to my office. We must speak of many things."

"Of cabbages and kings." Snape peered at the Headmaster's puzzled face. Hermione would have got the reference; he had no doubt. At times, dealing with old-school pure-bloods, even one as brilliant and learned as the Headmaster, was a tiresome thing indeed.

o0o

Snape swore Draco was avoiding him. He'd just caught sight of blond hair from the corner of his eye and, by the time he could turn his head, all he'd been able to see was the edge of a green robe sweeping past a corner.

"Professor?"

He turned and met Hermione's concerned gaze. She reached out as if to touch his arm, but stopped at his violent shake of the head. Theodore Nott stared at them from across the corridor. To her credit, she grasped the problem quickly, and loudly claimed she wanted to discuss rescheduling her detention. Snape gripped Hermione by the elbow, just as loudly threatening her with points off for loitering by the storeroom. He practically threw her into his office, then slammed the door behind them.

"I'm so sorry."

"Are you that stupid? Do you want to see me killed?"

"Professor—"

"About the only thing that saves this is that you and your friends are so well-known for your shenanigans Nott may simply assume your unconvincing performance was because you were trying to play me."

"Please, I—"

"Outside that door we are not friends; we are not friendly."

"Are we friends inside this door?" She smiled tremulously at him.

"Don't tell me you're about to cry."

She gave a shaky laugh. "Very well, I won't tell you." She sniffed and rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes.

"You didn't think." He sneered at her, letting her know he meant it as her permanent state of being rather than a transitive condition.

"I'm sorry," she said more sharply, her face red. "I forgot. It's just hard."

"So is Arithmancy. No one said Occlumency was easy—else Potter would be a master. Occlumency, if you haven't figured it out yet, is not a subject, it is a discipline of mind that includes not being swayed by every dip and rise of emotion."

"I've been worried, about you, about Draco…"

Snape raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

Her mouth twisted in a lopsided smile. "Well, not worried _for_ Draco, but you see Harry thinks…"

"And Potter would like me knowing this? I don't want to know."

"But—"

He swooped down on her and thrust his face inches from hers. "Let me give you some advice, Miss Granger. The way you know how to trust someone is not whether they keep your confidences. If they're lucky, you may never know they betrayed you. It's whether they let slip the confidences of others to you—if they can keep themselves from dealing out delicious bits of gossip that should have stayed secret. I've never sought to know what Potter wants, feels, or thinks."

"Maybe you should."

He drew back at that. "Maybe I'm tired of considering what Potters want, feel, and think."

"Maybe you should consider that Harry never knew his father so is hardly a walking study of him. Maybe you should consider that." She pressed her lips together in a way frighteningly reminiscent of Minerva, then crossed her arms and mirrored his posture.

Merlin, if she ever came to teach at Hogwarts, if she tried to combine Minerva's and his styles, the children would drop dead at the sight of her before they ever could be sorted. And given her Ravenclawish qualities… A griffin: a combination of lion, snake, and bird. She still needed more of the wily serpent in her, though. He felt his anger melting away and found it hard not to laugh out loud. "All right. I've considered it. I've decided he's a brat on his own merits. Now, get out and remember to look suitably abashed when you pass Mr Nott so as to maintain my reputation. If you wish to cry to heighten the effect, you have my permission."

Her hand was at the doorknob when she turned back towards him. "You know, Professor, I was looking for you because I found this book—"

"Out."

Later that morning in D.A.D.A. class, Snape turned to tear a new hole into Potter when The-Boy-Who-Annoyed dared ask a question, only to find Hermione's gaze on him. He clenched his fists and forced a neutral tone into his response. He didn't want to think about why he did that.

When she arrived at his office that evening, he relieved her of her armful of books and keyed her to the wards, making an elaborate set of arabesques with his wand.

"I thought you were no devotee of 'wand waving.'"

He slumped against the wall, out of breath, recovering. He'd grounded and centred; this shouldn't be taking so much out of him. "No 'foolish' wand waving. Do you take me for Lockhart? Those flourishes weren't for show. I should have done this two weeks ago. Had I known you'd traipse over here with the least excuse…"

She smiled widely. "A Custodis Charm. Related to the charm that sets a Secret Keeper and makes a place Unplottable."

He nodded. "Also related to the Disillusionment Charm. Whenever you are near or in this office, people will find themselves disinclined to knock at the door or look in this direction, and will suddenly remember they have something else to do."

"That's a very complicated working. Could you teach me?"

"Some other time. As you say, not a simple working." And not something you'd set for a short-term basis.

Hermione frowned. "The wards will recognise me now."

"Yes." It would allow her past the complicated wards he'd set on his office and storeroom after her—or her friends'—raid in her second year. Given her expression, the implications had not been lost on her. This told her he trusted her in a way no words of his could deny.

For a moment, she just stared at him intently, worrying her lower lip. "I don't think I'll ever understand you."

"You won't." He brushed past her without another look and sat at his desk. He felt like he needed to re-establish some distance between them.

"Speaking of complicated…"

He shot her a warning look.

She pulled a book out from the bottom of the pile. "I found this, not in the library, but in a room in Gryffindor Tower. It's not a room I've seen before, and when I looked, I couldn't find it again. It made the Indexia purr. See?" She tapped her finger on the scroll. "_The Umbra Codex_. I've never heard of it. The book looks awfully old."

He turned it over in his hands. Then carefully blew off the dust on the cover. He dared not use magic to clean it. He creased his brow when he opened it. There appeared to be significant gaps in the text. Sensing Hermione peering over his shoulder, he pointed his finger at the first line. "What do you read here?"

"It's Latin." He saw her struggle to piece it together. At least she knew better than to speak the Latin words aloud. Merlin knows what trouble that would get them into. If it had been Potter… but he trusted her to know better and just give him the translation.

She leaned over and wrote on a pad on his desk. He could feel her warm body against his arm. His face heated when he realised just which part was pressing so close, and he shifted over slightly. He peered at her words—block letters with dashes marking the missing words:

HERE — — — OF — — — HOGWARTS —. — — UNITING — — — ALL — — — THIS — — —.

Not the same words he was seeing at all. Snape pieced together the words she had written down with the words visible to him, without sharing them with Hermione. He riffled through the other pages only to find them blank. "Can you read this?"

"Not all of it. Too many words are missing."

"Would you say about three-quarters of them?"

She nodded. "What are you thinking?"

He felt a rising excitement. "That you're not going to find anything about this book in _Hogwarts: a History_. Might I borrow this?"

"Borrow? But Professor—"

"If this is what I suspect, this particular book would belong to you, and couldn't be utilised without permission. I need a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw."

"I could ask Luna—"

"A Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw I trust to be discreet, which I might add, does not include any of your friends." He leaned back and stared at her. "Can I trust you won't mention the book to anyone? Anyone. Other than the Headmaster?"

She looked mulish, pressing her lips tightly closed, but she gave a jerky nod. "Could you at least tell me—"

"No." If he was right, this was a book out of legend… not a speculation he was about to trust to Hermione until he could be assured her mind was locked down. As it was, this would complicate things since he couldn't use her assistance to research the book. He didn't dare put too many pieces down for her to see and give that brilliant mind a chance to put them all together. "Time, I think, for another Occlumency lesson." Which he barely had the strength to give. "Take down that bottle at the left end of the shelf over there and put three drops in my tea." She looked like she would argue, so he crossed his arms and glared. "If that's not too much trouble?"

She did it. Obviously without much liking it, but at least without incessant questions, for which he was grateful.

The next morning at breakfast in the Great Hall he showed the frontispiece of the book to Filius, having him write down what he saw. He didn't miss the almost avaricious gleam in Filius' eyes. He tutted at Filius' questions, telling him it was a confidential project for the Headmaster. Pomona just wrote down the words without questions, confirming the words he'd expected to fill in the blanks as soon as he'd known both his and Hermione's parts of the puzzle:

HERE IS THE BOOK OF SHADOWS OF THE HOGWARTS FOUNDERS. ONLY BY UNITING THE QUALITIES OF ALL THE HOUSES CAN THIS BOOK BE USED.

The Founders' own grimoire. Hogwarts' own recipe book.

o0o

Snape stood in his office shaking his head. No doubt Hermione was a bit put out that even though he'd returned her book, he'd refused to answer any questions about it. Still, annoying as it had been earlier in the week when Hermione had sanctimoniously acted more Mature-Than-Thou, as if she was sixteen going on thirty-six, it only made it all the more annoying when she regressed to a maturity reminiscent of a first-year.

Like now.

"What does throwing a punch have to do with magic?" she asked, a whine in her voice.

Although he did have some sympathy for her attitude. The physical coordination and grace he used as a dueller hadn't come naturally. He'd trained diligently to acquire it. Moreover, despite whatever trauma inflicted by her fight at the Ministry, she lacked the… motivation, the constant, daily motivation, the Marauders had provided him. And even before Hogwarts… learning how to defend himself hadn't been an academic matter as far back as he could remember.

He lifted an eyebrow in query before crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk, waiting to see if she could provide him with an answer. "You said you wanted to learn to be a good dueller?"

"It was too easy—the way Zabini disarmed me in class."

"Yes, you were pathetic."

She scowled at him, and he gave her a stare back. She moved closer to him, her forehead creasing in thought.

"I suppose, in a case like that, it would be useful to know non-magical means of defence."

"And?"

She looked back at him and shrugged.

"Most wizards and witches will expect a magical attack, and it can be useful to do the unexpected. Besides, do you remember my telling you it would be wise to join Hooch's morning exer—"

"Torture sessions. Yes, I do, and I don't—"

"There is more to magic than just the mind or how you wave a wand. Else Ravenclaw would rule the wizarding world. It takes an integration of mind, body, and spirit. It's well known you're not exactly top of the class when it comes to riding a broomstick."

"Small loss."

"Really? I'd counter it's no coincidence that Potter," he grudgingly ground out the words, "lauded as one of the best Seekers in generations, is also the only non-Slytherin to have earned an Outstanding in his D.A.D.A. O.W.L.s." Snape smiled smugly as he saw that hit home. Her lifted chin and a gleam in her eyes showed he'd roused her competitive instincts. "Why do you think Hogwarts makes such a fuss over Quidditch?"

"Because it is a universal law that males everywhere will make a fetish of chasing each other whilst waving sticks and catching balls."

Snape laughed and surprised himself with the lack of bitterness in the sound. Prolonged time with her seemed to have that effect on him. He frowned, remembering his conversation with the Headmaster a couple of days ago. He forced briskness into his voice. "More to the point, many of the stances and hand movements in duelling mirror Muggle martial disciplines."

He circled to her back and grasped her shoulders. She immediately stiffened and he let go. "Relax. Your shoulders are hunched up. That's no way to hold a wand—or throw a punch. And from Draco's whinging, you do know how to throw a punch."

"It was a slap."

"Hmmm. Make a fist. Good thing, then, you kept to an open-hand slap, you would have broken your thumb, you silly girl."

He heard a little hitch in her breath as he uncurled her fingers and placed her thumb above them, and suppressed a sigh. What did he expect after five years of how he'd treated her in class? He felt her hand tremble just a bit and saw her blush.

_She is afraid. Of me._ What would have been the cause of great satisfaction only a fortnight before, stung him more than a little, and he found that disturbing.

Or maybe she just found the very touch of his skin on hers repulsive. _Slimy, greasy, creepy… For a moment he was back behind the Greenhouse where…_

He pulled away jerkily and turned his back.

"In any case, duelling has nothing to do with our purpose here. Ask in class, Miss Granger, if you need pointers." More and more he'd lost sight that their time together was supposed to be about Occlumency and researching curses, not indulging himself by—

"Professor?" She sounded puzzled. As if she had no idea what message she had conveyed with her reactions. "Se… Sir?" It was strange, the way she'd had to catch herself. Had she been about to say something else?

Sir? She hadn't called him that in over a week when they were alone. Back to that were they now? Good. Better that way. And if he kept telling himself that, he might even come to believe it. "It is later than I thought. I don't want you to miss curfew. It would be such a… _shame_ if you lost Gryffindor points." His voice had come out sounding strained rather than harsh. He tried again. "You are dismissed." Before him flashed a memory of the djinn in Hermione's form. _She should be afraid._

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and closed his eyes tightly, refusing to turn. This close, the scent of her enveloped him: Apple, florals from her soap and shampoo. Light, innocent fragrances. He felt her hand brush lightly down his back making him shiver, then heard the sound of her walking away and shutting the door.

_Safe._ He wasn't sure if he meant him or her.

o0o

Snape squinted as the bright sunlight hit his eyes. He smiled, basking in the warmth, then scowled as a pair of first-year Hufflepuffs scattered, shrieking, at his approach. What? Did the rumours he was a vampire cause them to run terrified when he didn't incinerate in the sunlight? Or maybe it had been his smile—an unsettling sight for someone not in Slytherin, or often, even for one who was.

He stretched lazily. He had good reason to smile this late Saturday morning. The Headmaster had been ecstatic about his discovery of the Founders' grimoire—had even purported to understand why he'd had to return it to Hermione. The Dark Lord had not summoned him last night. He had actually managed a good night's sleep. Moreover, Slytherin had just finished their early morning Quidditch trials and he was, overall, pleased with the results.

Snape spotted Zabini on a grassy hill overlooking the pitch with a pair of Omnioculars. That raised an eyebrow. Spying on the Gryffindor trials was, of course, to be encouraged but…

"I had no idea, Mr Zabini, that you took much interest in Quidditch."

Zabini gave a start and licked his lips. "Good tryouts. Daphne's disappointed she didn't make Chaser. I suppose Urquhart had his reasons." Zabini gave him a sidelong look.

Snape grunted. One of the many good things about Lucius being in Azkaban was that he was off the Board of Governors and no longer Slytherin's major Quidditch sponsor. Of course there was still that fossil, Harper, Snape had to sweet-talk, so it wasn't as if he or Slytherin's Captain, Urquhart, had a free hand. Still, he might actually have a shot at winning his annual bet against Minerva this year. The bragging rights would be even more precious than the Galleons—assuming he lasted that long in the year to collect.

"Malfoy's game seemed off."

"He was still the best one trying out for Seeker."

"I'm not questioning that, sir."

No one could question that now; it had suited Snape's interests at the time to allow Lucius to think his purchase of the Nimbus 2001 brooms had bought his son's way in. It hadn't occurred to Snape back then to wonder how believing that might affect Draco. This year though, considering his father's fall from grace, Draco had needed to earn the position—he had to know he'd made it on the merits. Even if barely. Zabini was right. Draco's game had been off.

Much more important things on his mind, Snape supposed, like The Coward's Way to Kill The Most Powerful Wizard of Your Age: Chapter One—"See If You Can Get Your Minions to Do All the Dirty Work."

He grinned. Crabbe and Goyle would be spending far too many detentions—together with those Slytherin miscreants with a talent for tutoring—studying under Filch's eye every free period and evening for several weeks to be much help to Draco. It hadn't been hard to find their stashes of Amortentia Potion—earning them enough detention for several months. They'd both be better for it. Really. Or maybe Crabbe would. Goyle was hopeless.

Zabini drew back a bit. Certainly Snape's predatory thoughts meant the look on his face might be nasty enough to give anyone pause. On the other hand, Draco's game wasn't all that was off.

"Your Omnioculars, Mr Zabini."

"Certainly, just let me adjust—"

"_Accio_ Omnioculars." Snape pushed the replay button, and felt an icy finger go through him at the sight that met his eyes. His voice was subarctic as he grabbed Zabini's arm hard enough to elicit a startled yelp from him. "What are you doing spying on Miss Granger?"

Zabini twisted his face away from Snape.

"Look at me," he roared. He bunched his fists in Zabini's robes, forcing him to meet his gaze. Snape ripped through Zabini's mind, not caring for the niceties. He didn't care if he had to cast an _Obliviate_ afterwards. A series of images rushed past almost too quickly for him to process. He let go in relief and shock at what he'd sensed, and Zabini slumped to the ground.

"I just like her," Zabini whispered.

Zabini did. That had been the shock. The relief had been that neither Zabini's mother nor the Dark Lord had anything to do with that interest. He sagged to the ground himself, shaken by what he'd done and been willing to do if necessary.

"I like her." Zabini's face twisted. "A Mudblood."

"Don't."

Zabini started. Snape knew he'd sounded vehement—and hadn't even added a smooth equivocation or snide implication about what was politic. That was part of the problem with his situation. It was like having a terminal illness. He knew that before the year was out his life or soul would be destroyed. With such knowledge, keeping up the facade was becoming harder and harder. Especially when by using _that_ word Zabini shoved in Snape's face what a fucking waste he'd made of his life. He could feel his own face twisting. "I don't recommend such terms of endearment should you wish to pursue a courtship."

"My mother would kill me." Zabini said it almost absently, as a simple statement of fact about which he didn't much care. But then, they both knew it to be true.

"You won't be under her thumb forever. Unless you put yourself there. Is that what you want?"

"A reputation as a blood traitor?"

"Very well, as you wish. Should I put in a good word with the right people? Start your career early? I'm sure the Dark Mark will look smashing on you."

"_No_." Zabini drew up his knees and hugged them, shaking his head violently.

"What do you want, then?"

"Not to be my mother." Zabini looked down and wouldn't meet his eyes.

But Snape had seen more than enough already. He'd known Zabini's mother was on her seventh husband, six having died mysteriously. He hadn't known that Zabini had watched his favourite stepfather turn blue and die whilst his mother sipped her Earl Grey. Or that Zabini saw Snape in the place of that stepfather. The ironic thing is that it had taken the most hideous breech of trust he could think of to learn absolutely that Zabini could be trusted. Worse, he'd sensed Zabini had forgiven him even before he'd broken contact with his mind, so desperate was Zabini to maintain the image he'd formed of Snape.

"I suggest to you, then, that you 'look the innocent flower' to the right people, 'but be the serpent underneath.'" His mouth twisted. "Though admittedly, not quite in the sense the playwright meant."

"Macbeth?"

"Very good." It was rare for a pure-blood to get that sort of allusion, let alone admit to it.

"Stepfather number four was a Muggle-born. He took me to Stratford-on-Avon to see it. I'll never forget it. Muggles do have a kind of magic."

Not a Muggle-hater at all, then. Zabini might have a shot at Hermione. Why not? Zabini's good looks were testified to by haikus, odes, and sonnets to his "high-arched cheekbones" and "almond eyes." Snape had confiscated the treacly poems from the silly girls (and some even sillier boys) of all four Houses. Nor did a pretty face alone make him one of Slughorn's chosen—Zabini had wealth, connections, and more to the point in terms of attracting Hermione, was frighteningly brilliant. Snape forced himself to ignore the twisted knot in his gut. She'd leave Hogwarts anyway. That was the nature of students. "Lady Macbeth was a Slytherin, you know."

"She didn't end well."

"The historical Lady Macbeth, Gruoch, actually outlived her husband, and was a great queen of Scotland. As Macbeth was a great king. History is written by the victors, Mister Zabini, just as _Hogwarts: A History_ was written by the Gryffindor court historian of the last war's victor. Never forget that when you hear rot like 'every Dark wizard ever born was a Slytherin.' The worst have notoriously been Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors of whom the adage 'the road to hell' was coined."

Feeling unsettled by what had transpired, he picked up the Omnioculars and fiddled with them. Snape looked through the lens and froze. He'd forgotten that Zabini had set it to focus on Hermione. She sat in the late morning sunshine, her red and gold scarf blowing gently in the breeze that smelled like grass and herbs and all the things that made Hogwarts magical and dangerous. The sun caught her hair and it flared red, making his chest constrict painfully in memory.

His grip tightened when he caught a strange gesture she made with her hands and fingers. She mouthed something repeatedly, her gaze fixed.

Wandless magic.

She was casting a hex. A hex similar to what had almost caused Potter to fall off his broom his first year and that Snape had toiled to counter.

His mouth dry, Snape scanned the skies only to see McLaggen shooting off in the completely wrong direction to block the Quaffle. Snape's heart slammed in his ribs until McLaggen safely reached the ground.

The crowd jeered and guffawed and booed—just as they had when his broom had been hexed on his own trials all those years ago. At least that had been Pettigrew. He had been able to tell from the nod afterwards and triumphant glint in the watery blue eyes. He hadn't been betrayed by someone of his own House. And she was a _prefect_.

Hermione had to have been _Imperio'd_. That was the only explanation. Nimue help her if he found out otherwise. Hermione? _Miss Granger_ and he would have to have a little chat.

o0o

_**to be continued**_


	8. Chapter Eight Curses

Disclaimer: © 2007 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to _**Bambu**_ and _**Djinn**_ for their betas, _**Lifeasanamazon**_ for her Britpick, and _**Clare099**_ for suggestions and encouragement!

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**CURSES**

o0o

Hermione knew something was amiss when she heard the loud slam of the door to the D.A.D.A. classroom. The cadence of Snape's boots sounded as angry as a snare drum beating out time for an execution. She could sense the tension in the class in the swift clearing of desks and the hush that descended.

She'd thought there had been a softening in his classroom demeanour the last few weeks, but knew now it must have been her imagination. She'd confided to her mother how intimidating Snape could be back in her first year, and she had advised Hermione how to control her fears. Her mother's advice hadn't been that different than the standard way of dealing with Boggarts. Just imagine him on the loo, she had said. Since Lupin suggested to Neville he dress Boggart-Snape in his gran's dress, Hermione had then shifted to that mental image as her defence.

But neither mental image went with the man she'd been working beside these last weeks, so she'd again turned Snape around in her mind the way she hadn't since her first-year. She had split him down the middle: Snape and Severus. It had been hard to think of him, her teacher, as Severus even in the privacy of her mind, but nothing else seemed to fit, not if she were to start thinking of him as a real person the way the Headmaster had asked.

She sometimes wondered if she'd succeeded too well. She had found too much of Severus when they were alone lately, and she'd barely caught herself from speaking his first name out loud the last time they'd been alone. His manner now though, as he strode to the class podium and then whirled about, was pure Snape.

He raked his eyes over the class, and her breath hitched when they settled on hers, narrowing into a laser-beam stare that held no warmth. "Today we will be working on defences for a class of spells that attack the mind." He began to stalk back and forth in front of the class, pausing by her desk. "Can anyone here tell me what the most serious of these spells is? Ah, Miss Granger, perhaps you can enlighten us?"

She heard a gasp behind her and a nervous titter. In all the time she had been a student in his classes, Snape had never called on her before she could volunteer. There was an intensity to his gaze which made her feel that this question was, indeed, meant just for her. She frowned, then shook off her puzzlement and determined to just answer the question. "The most serious of such spells, of course, is the Imperius Curse, one of only three such curses that are classified as Unforgivable. The others are Cruciatus and the Killing Curse."

He moved away from her to his desk, leaning against it and steepling his hands. "Mr Malfoy, could you please tell the class why the Imperius Curse is considered on a par with the other two?"

Hermione released a breath, feeling she had just imagined his focus had been on her. Given what she knew of his affairs, she imagined Snape was springing a trap for Malfoy. She chewed on her quill, trying to fight a smile.

Malfoy muttered something under his breath.

"Speak up, Mr Malfoy, give the class the benefit of your … special knowledge on the matter."

"Sir," Malfoy said, his body and voice stiff, "the Imperius Curse removes free will and personal choice. As such, the Ministry holds it to be of the same class as a curse that would end choices altogether, such as the Killing Curse."

"Correct. Depending on the severity of the offence, Imperius can mean a life sentence in Azkaban, at minimum a penalty of seven years—the same as for rape."

Hermione felt sure she had surmised correctly Snape's motives when she saw Draco's face go a chalky white.

Snape paced about the classroom. All heads turned to keep him in sight. This time he stopped at Zabini's desk. "To tamper with or invade a mind hits squarely at a person's very identity and is arguably a worse invasion than any bodily one."

"But, sir," Zabini said, "surely, that is … there could be good reasons. It's only Dark Magic if your intentions are not good."

Leave it to a Slytherin to try to justify Imperius. Hermione craned her neck to look at Snape and Zabini. There was something … charged about their exchange. Zabini was always so quiet compared to Malfoy; it was easy to discount him as a force.

Ron leaned over and whispered to her, "That'll be bleeding useful. Maybe Snape can give us that section in the Death Eater's manual. After all, I'm sure they really all have the best intentions."

"Shhh, pay attention," Hermione replied.

"That is one definition. Good intentions," Snape said, "may mean a spell is not technically Dark Magic according to some, but it does not mean it does no harm."

"'An' it harm none, do what you will.' That is the ancient rede." Zabini's face took on a stubborn expression. "No harm. No foul."

Snape shook his head slightly. "It's not that simple to define or immediately see the harm." He turned and strode back to the front of the classroom. "I can see the entire class needs to be assigned material on ethics of magic usage. Now, experience has taught us …"

The whole class, other than her and the Slytherins, flinched. Hermione could just imagine them picturing Snape's personal experience casting Imperio.

" … Imperius is actually quite simple, even if not necessarily easy, to defend against. You will know immediately when it had been cast against you once you've learned to identify the effects. Even untrained boys of little skill or talent have been able to resist the curse, at least when cast by a wizard of … lesser talents." Snape's head turned toward Harry, and seeing her friend's stiff stance, she knew they were engaged in one of their little mental battles. Hermione inwardly groaned.

"No, depending on how it's cast, the effects can actually be more subtle in a lesser curse. Make no mistake, simply because we do not label a spell 'Unforgivable' does not diminish its power, and the creeping lure of the Dark can be all the more insidious to the caster. It will be those lesser curses and hexes we will be practising today as well as their defences. Such as Obliviate." Snape moved back to her desk. "And Confundus. Yes, I think it is definitely time this class learned to face those." Snape's eyes bored into hers.

_Bugger, oh, bugger._

Snape couldn't have possibly … he couldn't. They hadn't even had an Occlumency lesson since the trials; she hadn't even seen him in the halls. Even if these days he was never far from her thoughts, he couldn't have possibly read it from her mind. Her hand started to shake, causing her to drop her quill. She bent down from her seat to retrieve it, and when she moved back up, she met Harry's eyes, noted his worried expression. She shook her head and forced herself to give him a reassuring smile.

She couldn't resist a look at Ron and didn't like his expression. He had his chess face on, and that was always Ron at his most dangerous. He could never know what she had done. It would be worse, far worse, than if he had just flunked the trials without her help. It would make him think she didn't have any confidence in him.

Snape directed the class to get up from their seats and form two lines. With a swish of his wand, he moved the desks and chairs to the walls, clearing duelling space. Hermione found Harry right behind her. "Hermione … you don't think?"

"Hush, Harry, don't be daft. If Professor Snape knew, Gryffindor would be in negative numbers on House points and …"

_I'd be expelled._

For the first time, the seriousness of what she'd done began to fire through her brain. She'd pushed such concerns aside last weekend whenever they had threatened to surface. She hadn't wanted to look too closely at what she'd done and why. She had known Ron would have been crushed had he not made the team, and that McLaggen would be trouble. Was that enough?

She felt a fluttering unease uncurl in the pit of her stomach as she looked around for Snape.

He whispered something into Bulstrode's ear, and the witch glanced back towards Hermione and shook her head. If Bulstrode was balking at something Snape had directed her to do… Hermione felt more and more anxious, even more so when Snape paired her up with Bulstrode. She wasn't a match, physically, or, she hated to admit, magically, when it came to duelling with Bulstrode.

They sparred for a while, and, at first, Hermione felt she had the advantage. Bulstrode seemed reluctant to really engage her. Hermione used one of the moves that she'd seen Snape demonstrate the previous week, and crouched and spun, but as she completed her turn, Bulstrode had anticipated her. Hermione found a wand pointed at her throat, with Bulstrode too close for a counter or block.

Bulstrode shot Snape a pleading look. He nodded. She twitched her wand at Hermione in a familiar pattern.

Hermione felt a rush of air, and then became dizzy. She spun about and overbalanced, knocking into a chair, then careening into a desk. She heard sniggering laughter around her.

"Hey," a voice called, "Granger's bladdered!"

"Silence!" Snape roared.

She tried to find a wall to right herself with but kept misjudging the distance; her vision had turned traitor. Then she found Bulstrode, of all people, taking her by the elbow. For the first time, there was no malice in her voice. "Easy, Granger."

Then she heard Snape's voice. The slight growl in his tone, suggesting barely repressed rage, raised goosebumps.

"Why, Miss Bulstrode, just use _Finite Incantatem_. I'm surprised at you. Such a dangerous hex. You must remember to lift it immediately. What if Miss Granger left here and broke her neck on the stairs? I found Mr McLaggen in just such a state this weekend wandering the halls."

Snape then passed his wand over Hermione, and though her senses and balance finally righted themselves, she definitely didn't feel all was right in the world as she stared into his implacable pitch black eyes, and his lips thinned into an angry slash.

_Oh my God. Oh my God._

o0o

Hermione hadn't raised her hand once in the day's other classes, causing Flitwick and Vector to ask if she were ill. Thus at the day's end, she was relieved to go down to Snape's dungeons for her Occlumency lesson. It had been like living in the charged, oppressive air before a storm. She almost looked forward to the torrential rain pour, the lightning and the thunder. What had Snape waited for? If taking a thousand points off Gryffindor or getting her expelled wasn't his aim, what would he do to her instead?

All day she had mulled over what she had done at the trials. Instead of paying attention in class, she had dwelled on what Snape planned to do with her. As she made her way down the stairs, she felt a cramping dread. She hated how much she cared what he thought of her. But she did care. In her mind she played how her conversation with Snape would go, trying out various defences of what she had done. But in the end, they sounded, even to her, like weak excuses. Why had she done it? Because she could? Because in the end she had wanted to finally be one of the boys, to win Harry's approval?

That was what mattered wasn't it? That Harry had approved?

How had she sunk so low?

She wasn't a rule-breaker by nature, but in her time with the boys, she'd come far from the girl whose greatest fear had been to be caught at some violation and lose points or face with her teachers, let alone being expelled. She had told herself that was all to the good. Harry's teasing and smirk at her act had told her he approved of the change.

Snape, seated at his desk, didn't greet her as she came in. The sound of the door slamming behind her made her start, and she hoped he didn't notice. He just stayed still as she drew near, making her feel like a prisoner approaching the bar. _Damn._ She wasn't sure exactly why, but she sensed Snape took what she had done personally. She feared that in one act she'd unknowingly thrown away everything she'd built with him since term began, and she found she cared far beyond simply disappointing Dumbledore. She lifted her chin and forced her voice to remain steady. "Professor, I presume you have something to discuss with me?"

One dark eyebrow arched. "Miss Granger, care to explain what I saw?"

She stared down at the parchments on the desk rather than face him. "Are you going to … I was just trying to help—"

He slammed his hand down hard on his desk and she flinched. "You cast a hex at your fellow Gryffindor. You, a prefect pledged to enforce the rules." Snape leaned forward. "Look at me."

Her head snapped up and she reflexively met his eyes, giving a little gasp when she felt him begin to probe. Panicking, she didn't even think to Occlude but, grasping at the first thought that came to mind about how to counter a Legilimens, she flung out her wand and cast _Protego_.

_A young boy in Slytherin colours on a bucking broom, terror on his face, fought not to fall. Laughter rose around him from the spectators below. Snape?_

_—The same boy, a little older, pinned down to the ground with magic as he choked on a bar of soap while a laughing Harry held him at wandpoint._

_No, not Harry, this boy's eyes were brown. James Potter._

The images were abruptly cut off, and Hermione staggered, reaching for the desk to keep herself from falling.

Snape rose from his seat and caught her at the elbow, his grip hard. He pulled her up and towards him so his face was inches from hers. "Like what you saw? Your friend used the same trick. I always thought it pure instinct, but now I wonder if he got it from you."

He let go of her and she backed away, until she bumped against the chair by his desk, falling into it. She hit the seat hard, feeling the shock in the base of her spine.

She licked her lips. "I didn't plan to do it." She hadn't, any more than she had planned to hex McLaggen.

"And to think I had credited you with brains. To actually know what you're doing."

She had interrogated Harry about his Occlumency lessons, using as a pretext that she was sure those would be the private lessons he'd get from Dumbledore. The way _Protego_ had rebounded against Snape had intrigued her, although Harry had refused to say more when she had tried to question him further. She had wished for a moment then she could try it on Snape sometime, not just to protect any secrets, but because there was so little they knew about him, and so little trust Harry put in Snape even after all this time. She needed to understand him. For Harry. For herself, really. But she knew from Harry's uncomfortable reaction that Snape had considered it a violation, had known forcing Snape's memories open that way would be disastrous. How could she have so forgotten herself?

"The Quidditch trials, girl."

"I … You weren't there, you couldn't—"

"I was on the hill. I saw what you did."

She lifted her chin. "But not why I did it."

"No, I wasn't close enough to read your mind then. And apparently it's not a subject you'll allow yourself to be read on now."

"After what you said to Zabini in class today, how is what you just did any more right?" One more act to add to all the petty injustices, all the slights he had inflicted on her and Harry and Ron. Not to mention his little lesson today. He had done his utmost to humiliate her. She wasn't the only one in the wrong here. "You didn't ask. You didn't warn—"

"You didn't ask McLaggen either."

She pressed herself into the chair to keep herself from squirming in her seat. "I didn't just do it for Ron. McLaggen is—"

"Difficult to deal with? Unpleasant?" Snape's lips pinched to an almost lipless line. "Oh, yes, that's a good reason."

"I didn't want Harry to have to deal with him. He's under enough pressure." As soon as she said it, she bit her lip. _Yes, that excuse would go down well with Snape._ Her face grew hot and she tried to unclench her fists.

Snape's eyes were hard, glittering with a look she'd only seen directed at Harry, pinning her in her seat even from metres away.

She felt sweat trickle down her back, despite the coolness of the dungeons. "It wasn't just that. I didn't want him near Ginny, either. He looked … he looked as if he'd devour her. McLaggen has a reputation … I've heard things—"

"I don't want your excuses. Choosing the team and then dealing with them is Potter's job, and you should have left him to it. What you did—"

"I did to protect my friends."

"Then you're doing a bloody bad job of it. Morals. Isn't that what Hogwarts' little paladins are supposedly about? You don't even need morals if you apply the least sense. Do you know why you aren't already out on your arse? Why I haven't yet even told the Headmaster?"

She swallowed so hard it was audible. "I had wondered."

"Think you're immune? From expulsion? From the lure of Dark Magic? Slughorn's greatest disgrace is that he made a special pet of a brilliant student who became the Dark Lord. I have no wish, Miss Granger, to repeat his mistake."

"You're comparing me to _him_?"

"You're the best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived. Why shouldn't you share his sense of entitlement? You lot have been rewarded for every rule you've broken—won House Cups for it." He strode to her then and loomed over her, like a snake poised to strike. "That is when rules haven't simply been rubbed out. Potter could make a great Seeker? By all means waive the first year rule and give him a top of the range broom that none of his team-mates can boast. Potter misses the Hogwarts Express and goes joyriding in a flying car risking the exposure of our world? Let him off with a warning and a detention where anyone else would be expelled—"

"Stop it, just stop it! Harry didn't hex anyone!" She jumped up at that. Tried not to flinch when that brought her within inches of his face.

"_You_ will stop barking at me. I am your teacher, and you will treat me with respect."

"Respect? You ask for that while _you_ lecture me on rules and fairness. After what you did to me in class? You? It's not all an act—even when you've been alone with Harry, you've treated him like the dirt on your shoe!"

He smirked and waved toward the chair. "Sit down, Miss Granger. Let us discuss this calmly, shall we?"

She sat back down, feeling uneasy.

Snape moved back and sat at his desk across from her. "You are quite right. This has nothing to do with dear, heroic Harry Potter. This one is all yours. How do you think the Headmaster shall react when he finds out about this stain on Gryffindor honour?" He twirled a quill in a hand. "Oh, attempted murder by werewolf is all right—particularly if the intended victim is a nasty Slytherin of no particular note, but meddling with Quidditch _within_ Gryffindor—that's really beyond the pale." He gave her a toothy grin worthy of a werewolf sizing up prey. "Sacred. That he shall find hard to let go and cover up. Ordinarily. Fortunately, you have an ace in your hand. Do tell, Miss Granger. What would be the consequences if your no doubt good-hearted meddling were made public?"

She crossed her arms, rubbed them, in an attempt to comfort herself as the thought that had been preying on her all day flew out into the open. "I'd be expelled."

"Go on." He gave her an impatient look. "Lupin boasted you were a clever witch. Sometimes you convince even me you're not a complete moron. Are you so obtuse about House and wizarding politics after six years? You're a Muggle-born, a prefect, one of the top in your class and one of the 'Chosen One's' best friends—rumour has even claimed more."

She itched to slap the sneer off his face and clutched the arms of the chair tightly to still her impulse. "You certainly helped spread them—reading that horrid article of Skeeter's out—"

"All of which—_all_ of which—puts you in a particularly prominent position." He looked down at her intently, his voice suspiciously casual. "Does Potter know what you did?"

She looked away and ran her sweaty palms on her robes.

Before she could speak, however, he said, "Don't bother answering, it's immaterial. It wouldn't matter if Potter knew or not. The others would assume he did. You and Ronald Weasley are his best friends. Potter's the captain of the team. It would be assumed you were all engaged in a conspiracy against your fellow Gryffindors to fix the trials in favour of Weasley out of pure cronyism. How do you think the other Houses would react? Or even your fellow Gryffindors? You would discredit Potter—"

She glared at him. "And you care so much about that."

"I do. Because it would make taking the Dark Lord down harder. You're a sixth year Gryffindor prefect. Either Ronald Weasley will be the next Head Boy or you will be the next Head Girl or both. That's how it works. There hasn't been a Slytherin in that position for over twenty years, and there hasn't been a Gryffindor not in one slot or both in the same period. And it won't be Ronald Weasley who gets the nod between the two of you, I can guarantee you that. Like it or not, you have a responsibility."

"If we hadn't discarded the rules left, right and centre, Harry would have been dead in our first year—"

He came out from behind his desk then and began to pace in front of her. "If you discard rules, you must still have principles. Don't know the three-fold law? Whatever you do comes back three times." He stopped between her and the shelves adjacent to her, bracing himself against them and rubbing his left forearm. "Always owing, never out of debt," he said softly, almost as if to himself. His eyes whipped back to hers. "You say that I'm one to lecture. You no doubt know I was barely a year older than you when I decided to discard the rules about what was Dark and what Light. You being a Muggle-born or Gryffindor does not make you exempt or immune to the temptations—" He stared at her. "Did you know Marietta Edgecombe is still scarred by your curse?"

"After what she did—"

"She deserved it? Certainly. Edgecombe is what she is—but she's also what you made of her. You've made an enemy. I wouldn't take that lightly, deserved or not. Such hatreds, born in this time of life, burn deep and long. What was your complaint about what I had tried with you? Oh, yes, that I didn't warn you."

"All she had to do was not betray us." She hated the tremble in her voice and braced herself in her chair. She felt nauseous. With each word in their conversation, Snape had carved out a piece of her skin, until she felt raw, like she'd soon be completely flayed—ready to be boiled and put into a bottle to join the other specimens on his shelves.

"If you had let her know the consequences, either she would not have signed the parchment, and you'd have been put on your guard, or she might have thought twice before going to Umbridge. Not morality—stupidity—that's what so offends me about how you've operated. Edgecombe has family in the Ministry at the highest levels. So does McLaggen."

She had to force her jaw to relax so she could speak, and when she did, her voice was loud and shrill. "Stupid? I did what I had to, to protect us all. Are you going to scold me about Umbridge next? What is this—some kind of reckoning or confessional? The Headmaster told me … you knew I …"

"There are times when ruthlessness, even what some might call 'cruelty,' is called for. And Umbridge?" He swooped down on her, standing so close she felt trapped in her chair. "I'd say how you acted against her was both necessary and deserved. Though what would you have done if Umbridge was killed by the centaurs? If your hand in it had been discovered by the authorities?" He grasped her shoulders. "There is a difference between justice and malice, between defence and cheating towards petty ends."

Sneering, she jerked away and stood up to face him. "You, of course, are never malicious or petty. The way you've treated Neville alone is … is—I'll never forget how you treated his pet, threatening to poison Trevor before his very eyes. Where was the policy, the necessity in that? How about the 'insufferable know-it-all,' the 'no difference' remark about my teeth? How could all that be necessary?" Her voice had risen with each word until she was screaming. She struggled not to cry and lost, felt hot, angry tears roll down her cheeks. "You're a pathetic bully." She sobbed out the words, from the hurt she had held back so long, that had pressed on her the more she'd come to care about Snape.

Her last sentence had come out too fast, before she could shut her mouth against it. So fast, and said so low beneath her sobs, she hoped he hadn't been able to follow her meaning.

Looking at his absolutely still face, she knew that hope was in vain. She stood as still. But as the silence stretched, she found it increasingly hard not to squirm, or at least avert her gaze. God, how he must despise the sight of her. She wished he'd hurl one of the jars in the shelves behind him, blast a candlestick with his wand, yell, scream, let spittle fly. Anything but this controlled, slow assessment as she watched him close himself off from her with the finality of a twitch of a curtain across a window.

Snape's fixed gaze, his flat voice, caused her to feel hollow and sick. "You will go now to the Headmaster's office. Tell him what you did. Be sure to tell him Potter knows, because if you don't, I will. If, instead, you tell him yourself, you may not even lose your prefect badge. Now. Get. Out."

o0o

Hermione went straight to the Headmaster's office from the Dungeons, not even bothering to go to the loo first to remove the traces of her tears.

Like an indulgent grandfather, Dumbledore offered her a place to sit and a sweet. Her heart pounded, and her stomach cramped as she told him why she was here. She watched the twinkle die in his eyes as she spoke. It seemed as if she were ensconced in a little hell, one where she had to explain over and over what she had done at the trials and her reasons for it, and her excuses rang more hollow with every repetition. At the end of her tale, Dumbledore's bright blue eyes, with their grave expression, seemed no more approving or reassuring than had Snape's matte black. "Sir, I'm sorry."

"Did you tell Professor Snape that?"

"No, I'm afraid we argued … and … he had tried Legilimancy on me without even asking and before that he humiliated me in class and …"

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh. "I see." His withered hand thumped on the desk like it was made of dead wood. "How are you planning to make things right with him again?"

Hermione blinked. "Sir, I would think … I mean what are you planning to do …?"

"About your cheating?"

Hermione winced.

"Nothing. I think Professor Snape knows that, even if he might not appreciate my reasons."

"I think he does. He told me this would discredit Harry. But aren't you going to tell—"

"—you how wrong you were? My child, do I need to say it? Truly? You wronged not only Mr McLaggen, but Mr Weasley. Not simply by your lack of faith, which would cut him to the quick were he to know it. Miss Granger, what would you do next? Travel with him to professional Quidditch trials and hex his nearest rivals? Often it is better to let someone fail early and let them learn how to rise back up, than it is to give them a helping hand."

Hermione's head dipped lower and lower with every word. In his own, quiet way, Dumbledore's words cut as deeply as Snape's. "Sir, I didn't do it just because of that, I did it to—"

"Gain your friends' approval? And out of dislike, perhaps. I know Mr McLaggen is not considered a pleasant fellow."

"Professor Snape admitted much the same."

"Did he now? Did it perhaps occur to you that over the years Professor Snape has heard much the same kind of justification of behaviour directed toward him?"

His words hit her like a blow. She flashed back to the images she had seen. "Professor Snape, when he was a student here—?"

"We did not do well by him, Miss Granger. _I_ did not. He lost a chance for a place on the Slytherin team in this third year. He claimed it was by Pettigrew's hex. Not even Professor Slughorn spoke up for him. Mind you, we did not at the time have any real evidence, simply the suspicions and accusation of a student known to have a grudge against the boy he was accusing. Based on nothing but a smirk and a remark he claimed had been made by Pettigrew."

"And you weren't inclined to take the bare word of a Slytherin against a Gryffindor."

"He saw it that way. And that was not the only, first, last, or most serious incident while he was a student here."

"I know." Before her rose the image of James Potter tormenting the young Snape. Hermione covered her face with her hands. "How he must despise me."

"Professor Snape has come to enjoy your company more than I think he would like to admit. You have been getting through to him. But yes, I think what has happened has cut all the more deeply. So, again, I must ask you, what do you intend to do to make things right with him?"

"Grovel?" Her weak smile didn't make a dent in Dumbledore's grave expression.

"Miss Granger, he does not expect to live out the year. I'm not sure I give him two."

She shook her head violently, feeling a chill run through her. It couldn't come to that.

Dumbledore put the tips of his fingers together. "I am not dwelling on what happened at the tryouts because, in comparison, it is a triviality except in how it has affected things between the two of you. You have forfeited his trust. Without that, I have little hope I can find another way to protect him once"—He glanced at his blackened hand—"once certain events transpire."

"I said terrible things," she said, a catch in her voice. She looked away, then back. "I called him a bully."

"I see." In two words he managed to convey deep disappointment.

"Well, he is, and don't tell me it's all because he has to act as one."

"Ever watched a Sergeant-Major train soldiers, Miss Granger? No, it's not simply that he has to be a plausible Death Eater. Muggle children are not allowed guns. We put an even more dangerous weapon into the hands of eleven-year-olds. Do you think he enjoys it?"

She shook her head. She drew on the image of James Potter. _He_ had looked as if he had. She'd never seen the like really in Snape, although she felt Dumbledore might feel differently about how Snape functioned as a teacher if Dumbledore saw how Snape acted with Harry—or when Snape was even in the same room as the boy who shared the shape of Snape's old tormentor.

"Or that I would allow students to be brutalised?"

She met his eyes then. "You did."

His gaze turned inward, as if his thoughts were far away, then he sighed. "It is more difficult to control students outside the classroom than teachers within it."

"I doubt he will even be willing to teach me or see me outside class."

"I will ensure that he does."

"He's never going to forgive me. He never forgave James Potter, and Harry has had to suffer for it."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "He managed to forgive me. But it is difficult, Miss Granger, not to hold a grudge if the people who have wronged you are unwilling either to admit their wrongs or make amends. I do not see him so much as a man unwilling to forgive, but like many Slytherins I have known, as a man who plays the game of tit for tat. He will not be the first to let go or forgive a debt. But neither is he one who would flinch from paying a perceived debt in full." He peered at her from the top of his half-moon spectacles, some of the warmth and humour in his gaze reappearing. "So, yes, I suppose in the end it does come down to grovelling."

o0o

Hermione came to an abrupt stop after entering Snape's office. Blaise Zabini lolled against the wall beside Snape, ankles crossed. He looked down at her through half-lidded eyes while fussing about his sleeve, then smoothed his hair.

"What is _he_ doing here?"

"It's a thrill to see you too, Granger."

Snape didn't even bother to look up from the parchment he was writing on. "The same thing you are, Miss Granger—taking Occlumency lessons from me. Surely you didn't think I'd waste my valuable time forever teaching only you?"

Hermione went up to his desk and leaned towards him. "What about our research?"

"Ah, yes. You know that book you found? Write down the words you see, with dashes to indicate spaces in this ledger. You can do it in your room, the library, the Gryffindor Common Room—I don't care where, as long as you don't do it in my presence." He rose from his desk and gathered Zabini with a look. "Come along, Miss Granger, I don't want you wasting more of my valuable time."

She struggled through the following session. She felt humiliated watching the ease with which Zabini picked up techniques she had not, even after weeks. Humiliated and frustrated. How was she going to rebuild things with Snape if she were never alone with him? She missed the ease they'd gained, even the fleeting contact she'd had with him when he had taught her duelling. She'd just have to wait Zabini out, but he seemed to want to linger afterwards too, until she'd had enough.

"Professor, I need to talk to you privately."

Zabini gave her a long look at that—and Hermione had to wonder just what he had been told about her own role here.

"Ta, Hermione," Zabini called out as he left.

She started at that. She couldn't remember a Slytherin ever calling her by her first name. "He hardly seems to need lessons," she told Snape. "He's more advanced than I."

"He's from a family of Legilimens. His potential manifested early, and as a pure-blood, he's familiar with some of the concepts, which makes him easier to train, but makes training him all the more crucial. He needs to be proficient before he has to return home for the holidays. Frankly, his need is more urgent than yours given his circumstances." He spoke to her with the old ease, but then he seemed to remember himself, and his expression shuttered.

The change in expression hit her like a sharp slap. She spoke before his eyes could grow cold, his mouth turn up in a sneer. "I am so sorry, sir, for the things I said."

"Please, Miss Granger, do not add hypocrisy to the list of your offences. Just as I know when you lie, I know when I hear truth. You meant every word."

"I did mean some of it, or at least meant it to hurt. I was angry. Some of those things had been pressing on me for a long time, and I hurled them at you with all the force with which I repressed them given our positions. It's true I think you are often unfair and act the bully even when it's unnecessary for any role you may be playing. I honestly believe you hate Harry—"

"And this is your apology?"

"Please, let me finish. You hate Harry, but you still protect him and all of us. I do respect you for that. Enormously. And for your learning, the way you can convey knowledge, your brilliance in Potions, the bravery you've shown on so many occasions. Please, sir, I know I acted wrongly, both at the trials and with you." She forced a tremulous smile. "Today's my birthday, you know."

"And you would like absolution gift-wrapped with a bow? Your birthday. That would make you seventeen. An adult in our world, Miss Granger, with adult responsibilities and without the excuses allowed a child."

"Well then, given I was still a child then, perhaps …? Please." She gave him a pleading look and laid her hand on top his for a moment, a ploy that had always worked well on her dad. She felt a tingling heat suffuse her at the contact, felt her heart skip a beat before he snatched his hand away.

No, Snape wasn't her father. And this wasn't the first time a simple touch of her skin against his had provoked this kind of reaction. She stared at him. His head was bowed, his raven hair curtaining his face as he read a parchment. He seemed to be taking pains to ignore her, and she felt a pang. "Well, at least Zabini seems to like me," she muttered.

He snapped his head back up at that. "Miss Granger. Do not make an effort to befriend Mister Zabini."

"You don't trust him? Then why would you—and presumably the Headmaster—?"

"I have better reason to trust Zabini than I do you, even if Order business and my role there is not to be discussed with him. However, relationships, of any kind, between Slytherins and Gryffindors do not ever turn out well. You do not need to be friends to be allies … you need only … tolerate each other."

"I … I appreciate your full meaning, Professor." And she did. Hermione was far from stupid. Strange as it might seem, though Snape might feel she had got off lightly for her misdeed, she was feeling the loss of Snape's companionship more keenly than she would have months of detentions. She didn't feel dismissed from his presence, but exiled from a haven.

o0o

Things didn't improve much between her and Snape over the next three weeks. Snape "tolerated" her. His manner during the Occlumency lessons had nothing of the nastiness of his classroom demeanour with Harry, but neither did it have any of the banter or warmth she had come to enjoy. Any attempts to mention the personal, or even discuss intellectual matters, were rebuffed. She found herself particularly missing him today with all that had happened—Harry's encounter with Mundungus, Katie being cursed, Ron ogling Rosmerta in front of her—she wouldn't have been able to discuss Harry or Ron with Snape even when they had got on, but just spending time with him would have made it all more bearable somehow.

Seeing Ron in this favourite spot in the common room, she plopped herself into the wingback chair beside him. His seat also occupied the prime space beside the fireplace, and Ron had taken to being rather territorial about it, using being a prefect to oust anyone already there. She thought about what Snape had said, that Ron could very well end up Head Boy or her Head Girl. Somehow, she didn't feel either of them were earning such a position given the way they'd acted this term thus far.

When Ron saw her, he stiffened a moment, and Hermione had to grit her teeth not to respond in kind. He had been so touchy lately. She remembered Ron's blank expression in D.A.D.A. class and worried her lower lip. Could he suspect? Was it about that? Or was it just his exclusion today from Slughorn's invitation to her and Harry to join the Slug Club, reminding Ron he didn't quite rate? She was tired of having to constantly prop up his ego. Her last practical attempt to do so had cost her so much.

She woke up mornings now with Snape's voice lingering in her head from dreams. Dreams where she'd chase his voice but never find him, or where she'd lean to touch his hand only to have him pull away by the same distance.

Trying to reconnect to Snape had been made harder due to Zabini's presence. She begrudged Zabini every minute he got with Snape. Besides, Zabini was a hypocrite. For whatever sinister reason of his own, he had pretended to be nice to her, even had tried to draw her into conversations, which she'd cut off as quickly as Snape had to any overtures of her own. However, she had noticed Zabini didn't treat her with anywhere near the same friendliness at the Slug Club.

She stared into the flames, trying to gather herself and decide what she'd say to Ron, but he spoke up first. "Fancy you being here, Hermione. It's been weeks since I've seen you after classes or on weekends. I'm surprised you went with us to Hogsmeade. Aren't you afraid you'll get behind? Where are you, only five years post-Newt?"

"Honestly, Ron, I didn't come here to pick a fight, or let you pick one. I'm worried about Harry. After today …"

He gave her a sharp glance, then sighed. "He does seem a bit obsessed about Malfoy."

Lavender sauntered into the room, and Hermione couldn't help but note how Ron's gaze tracked the blonde. She felt a surge of irritation. She couldn't keep Ron's attention two minutes when a pretty girl walked into the room, whether at the Burrow with Phlegm or Rosmerta in the Three Broomsticks.

Hermione stared into the fire a moment, blinking. She had sensed that Ron had fancied her a long time, but he was all fits and starts. Ever since the fourth year, she would sometimes feel a tug back, if only because Ron seemed the only one besides Viktor who had ever seen her that way. She wanted that, to be seen as a girl not just the brain—the bushy-headed answer to any question. But exactly because Ron sometimes did _see_ her that way, no one had the ability to make her feel more invisible at times. She felt like he would only see her if every other pretty girl left the room. "Do I have your attention, Ron? This is important. I meant today, with Mundungus."

"You know how Harry feels about Sirius. When he saw 'Dung had nicked a goblet of his, probably right from his own house, how do you expect him to react?" Ron shifted in his chair.

"I don't expect him to attempt murder."

"Oh, please, 'Dung wasn't hurt."

She wrung her hands. "He was turning blue, Ron. _Blue_. Harry had him pinned to the wall and was strangling him with one bare hand. I'm the one who stopped him."

Ron leaned forward, his blue eyes finally sharply focused on her. "The bang, the way his hands flew off—?"

"That was me. I'm not about to forget how Mundungus looked right afterwards, either." He had gasped and sputtered, drawing in great wheezing gulps of air. Before he'd Disapparated, she'd caught the sight of the bruises already forming about his neck. "If I hadn't stopped Harry, he'd have murdered Mundungus." She shivered, despite the fire burning beside her.

One of the few people who could exert any control over Harry was Dumbledore. And he was dying. Slowly perhaps, but there was no other conclusion to be reached from both the state of his hand and the cryptic allusions from him and Snape both. And when he died … Snape would lose his one protector, the man who had kept him from Azkaban.

"Harry wouldn't. Hermione, you know better. This is _Harry_ we're talking about. It's—it's Harry." Ron flung up his arms.

"When Harry has time to think … but he has a wicked temper." And he's a good hater. Not unlike Snape, really. "And people are looking to Harry, Ron, They follow him."

Harry had been courted by the Minister for Magic himself, was being wooed by Slughorn for and in a different kind of dance than the ones at which the girls wanted their turn. She had told Harry, when he had seemed oblivious to the female attention he was getting, that he had never been more fanciable than now, when all he had claimed about Voldemort had proved to be true. Harry had never seemed more powerful, and females of any age found that irresistible. The wizarding world, especially after Dumbledore's death, would look to Harry for leadership, and as Snape had pointed out, being a Gryffindor didn't exempt you from the temptations of power. What she'd done was proof of that.

She wasn't sure anyone could restrain Harry then. Not her. Not Ron. Not with Dumbledore gone. She hated to think Snape had been right. But every time Harry had gone off half-cocked he'd been rewarded, and most times, she still felt, Harry had been right to and those rewards had been richly deserved. He had saved himself, the school, the wizarding world. But when things had gone pear-shaped last term, Harry had blamed Dumbledore, Snape—anyone but himself—and neither she nor Ron had been willing to make Harry face his own responsibility for Sirius' death. Even now, she wasn't prepared to go there. Harry's pain was too raw.

"You sound scared." He gave her a puzzled look. "Of Harry? What do you want us to do about it?"

She shook her head. "Oh, Ron, I don't know." She touched his hand lightly, and noticing his flush, she pulled away, uncomfortable. "I only know I need you, that I can't reach Harry alone." Ron was their balance wheel, Harry's best mate. And one of hers, even if at times she wanted to hex him as much as hug him. She looked into Ron's troubled eyes. "I know Harry would never hurt me."

But that wasn't her concern. Harry had almost killed a full-grown wizard in his rage, almost casually, on impulse. And he didn't hate Mundungus.

But he hated Snape.

o0o

Hermione ran down the steps leading to Snape's Dungeon office. She'd gone to see how Katie was doing at the Hospital Wing and overheard Pomfrey complain to McGonagall that Snape was in "no shape" to take himself off to his office after breaking that curse.

Unexpectedly, his door opened to her touch, and Hermione realised that he hadn't reset the wards against her. For a minute, her throat felt too tight to breathe. She took quick pulsing breaths, trying to push back the tears. She felt like she could hear Snape demanding she "toughen up." As she slowly expelled a breath, she heard low voices.

"You're going to be the death of me," Dumbledore said in a waspish voice.

"Isn't that the plan, Headmaster?" Snape's voice was scratchy, a frayed thread compared to his usual velvet tones.

"You had no business trying such a risky spell. You could have been killed. You have no right—"

"To dispose of my own life?" His voice gentled. "Did I scare you? Worry not, Albus, I won't waste my death on the wrong Gryffindor."

Frowning at the puzzling words, she was tempted to keep listening, but spying at keyholes was Harry's indulgence, not hers. She rapped on the open door to get the men's attention before entering.

Snape sat slumped at his desk, his elbows propped on the ebony surface, his head in his hands. He straightened up slowly and blinked, as if trying to focus his gaze.

Dumbledore nodded. "I was just leaving. Both of you need to talk—"

"Headmaster, really, Miss Granger has no reason to be here."

"She has every reason. This has gone on long enough." He patted Snape on the shoulder. When Dumbledore passed Hermione, he squeezed her on the shoulder and smiled at her reassuringly before leaving.

Snape sighed and rubbed his eyes as she approached. "Why do you keep trying? Do you perversely enjoy the company of bullies and Boggarts?"

She ventured a small smile. "I'm not Neville. That's not how I see you. Not as a Boggart anyway." She took in the almost greenish cast to his skin and the smudges under his bloodshot eyes, as dark as bruises.

"For the record, and I won't sit here and give you a full account of all my dealings in the classroom, but I believe Longbottom needs toughening up, and a Potions lab is no place for a pet. I had hoped my little ploy would teach him that. You do realise as a Potions Master, I knew full well it wasn't poison?"

"But Neville didn't know that. You could have just told him to keep Trevor out."

"And that wouldn't have stopped him from carrying his pet around when handling dangerous plants or potions while not under supervision. Nor am I very effective instilling lessons through a kind voice and a hand on a shoulder." He shook his head. "I don't know why I should explain any of this to you." He bent down to a parchment. Marking papers she realised.

His voice was so raspy. She swallowed. It reminded her of Harry's voice after being Crucio'd, his voice raw from screaming. She saw Snape's shaky scrawl and ached for him. He wouldn't let her help—not if she put it that way, asking him openly. "Sir, could I please help mark some of the papers for previous years? I could learn so much."

His face tightened. "Perhaps you'd like to mark your own year's? Ensure Mr Weasley receives what he deserves? I'd have to trust the integrity of such an assistant."

That stung, as she was certain he meant it to, but she refused to let him push her away any longer. He needed her—Dumbledore said so, even if Snape didn't realise it yet. So she just leaned closer to him and said, "I wouldn't give them an inch. You've taught me better. I'm a fast learner, after all."

"What? A Gryffindor who actually learns from me—and on my first attempt?"

"I'd rather not have another lesson like the one that day in D.A.D.A., even if I have to admire your creativity." She swallowed, her throat tight. "I've missed you," she whispered. "Somehow, at some point, I'd begun to regard you as a friend."

"Don't."

Her mouth twisted. "Too late."

"Please, you don't know the first thing about me. Do you even know my first name?"

"Severus."

"That wasn't an invitation."

She smiled. She thought it was, even if he wouldn't admit it. "It was a question. Would you ever expect me to hear one from you and not seek to answer it?"

His lips twitched upwards, and for a moment she grinned back, feeling giddy and light, but then, he shook his head. "Friends provide a shoulder to cry on, not a cause for the tears. I can't provide you with the first, and I shall be the cause for the second."

"Don't you care for me even a little? Or have I only made myself ridiculous?"

"I care enough. To be your teacher." His voice slurred on the last word, and his eyes closed. "I'm very tired, Miss Granger. Let this go."

She tentatively squeezed his shoulder a moment and was heartened that he allowed it. Probably too drained and tired to summon the energy to object. "For now."

She remembered the complex series of moves he'd used to open his office to her. She had come to believe the personal defences he used to lock up the man behind his harsh persona were no less complex. But he had been letting her in—he had. And then slammed himself back shut. Was it too much to hope that, since he'd never changed the wards back, perhaps he'd left the door back to him unlocked, as well, even slightly ajar?

o0o

**to be continued**


	9. Chapter Nine Unforgivable

Disclaimer: © 2005 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur nonprofit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

Thanks to _**Bambu**_ and _**Djinn**_ for their betas, _**Lifeasanamazon**_ for her Britpick, and _**Clare099**_ for suggestions and encouragement!

**CHAPTER NINE**

**UNFORGIVABLE**

o0o

In the morning, Snape awoke with a sore body and an aching head—legacy of his curse-breaking of Katie Bell. He moved slowly and deliberately, checking each muscle in turn from wriggling his toes to rolling his shoulders. _Not too bad._ He'd leeched some of the curse through his own body and back into the necklace. Sore muscles and bouts of cramps would recur for months until Miss Bell fully recovered—the spell he had used tied them together until then to some extent—but Albus had exaggerated the danger. Snape had known what he was doing.

But then perhaps Albus suspected …?

The spell Snape had used to break the curse attached to the necklace was very old, from a book in the Slytherin House library which had been enchanted to not be shared beyond House members. He'd also made some adaptations based on a charm in one of the journals Hermione had found with the _indexia_. Using the charm spread the damage over months rather than an instant, giving both the caster and the subject a chance to heal. If he tried the same spell on Albus's hand and the ring …

Snape grimaced. He'd need Albus's full cooperation, and there'd be no hiding from him the price for that spell would be much higher—Snape's hand, if not his life, given the potency of the curse which had been on the ring.

As he rose from his bed, his hand brushed against the dream catcher, and his fingers came away with shining strands stuck on them. He rubbed the filaments between his fingers, crushing them. They made his fingers tingle, then grow numb. He frowned. He brought his fingers up to his nose. There was a sharp, acrid smell lingering on his skin, a bit metallic, like freshly cut grass.

Spiders in Britain were harmless; of course, this wasn't truly Britain, but Hogwarts, a place apart, inhabited by beasts no Royal Society field guide would list. He'd seen a creature by the web of the dream catcher more than once, but it had scurried away before he could have a good look. He'd have to remember to lay out a trap.

Whilst making his way to the loo and during his morning routine, he mused about avenues of research. Perhaps Hermione could … Snape stilled. He remembered her small hand and fingers pressing his shoulder, seeming to burn through the wool of his frock coat to be felt on his bare skin—he'd been aware of every point of contact even through his exhaustion. He'd allowed her that familiarity, had allowed that and even her use of his first name, had smiled at her, had justified his actions to her—

With a roar, he hurled the bar of soap at the mirror above the sink. It bounced off and hit his nose, and he cursed at the mirror.

"Now, dearie," said the mirror in a throaty female voice, "no use attacking and cursing me just because you're ill-favoured. Really, with the charms available nowadays, there's no reason not to fix your teeth at least. You could look quite—"

Snape's reply was to sweep the bottles and toiletries off the shelf, and they crashed into the bath with a clatter and the tinkle of breaking glass. He stood braced with his shaking hands on the sink, breathing hard and feeling sick to his stomach.

"Well, that's mature."

"Shut up. Or so help me I'll spell you into becoming Pansy Parkinson's mirror." He glared at the mirror—which stayed blessedly silent for once—then cast _Reparo_ at the mess in the bath and levitated the items back to their places on the shelves.

He had been at a low ebb last night. The breaking of the curse had required entering Bell's mind, coaxing her trust and consent. The view of himself he'd seen in the mirror of her mind had repulsed him—the images had conveyed her fear and distrust, even disgust.

_Pathetic bully_.

He wondered if that would be what he'd see if he looked into Hermione's mind. Their argument had left him feeling hollowed out and sick. "Bully" epitomised the Marauders, even Gryffindors for him. For so many years he had nursed his grievances and felt justified by the prejudices and slights against him and his House to even the score—often literally in terms of taking off points. His nasty persona kept fools away, kept control of the classroom, fit his role as ersatz Death Eater—fit him. Had he gone too far at times? What if he had?

The lingering questions shook him enough that he had borrowed Albus's _Pensieve_. He had barely recalled one of the instances she had flung out at him—about her teeth—so he'd reviewed the incident, trying to remember what had gone through his mind. Watching had made him angry with Weasley and Potter all over again. With their insistence of justice at his hands when, for the life of him, he couldn't see much difference between how Draco and Potter had acted—even Potter had admitted both had drawn their wands at the same time. If anything, the boils caused by Potter's jinx of Goyle looked more disfiguring and far more painful than Hermione's enlarged top teeth, grown down to her collar, caused by Draco's misdirected spell.

Snape remembered having that thought, and that probably had been how the words had occurred to him when Weasley had dragged down Hermione's hand to display her teeth.

_I see no difference_.

He didn't even have to close his eyes to conjure up a vision of how humiliated Hermione had appeared even before he had spoken, how his words had drawn a whimper and tears from the girl and had sent her running from him.

His heart had constricted as he'd watched the scene of two years ago. Oh, he had known exactly how his words would be taken. They had been as carefully calculated as any potion. Yes, as he'd hoped, his words had diffused the ugly seething from his Slytherins, had redirected the anger of the Gryffindors safely back at him, but—

The hell of it was, from watching, he could tell he'd greatly enjoyed himself two years ago—his own wit, and how her hurt had driven Potter into a gibbering rage.

No, mirrors of memory were not kind to him. He knew full well from his own experiences just how deeply jibes at appearance cut at that age.

Well, though she knew it not, Hermione had got her fullest revenge and more. He had not expected it to be so hard these last few weeks cutting himself off from her. All that had really been sufficient to forgive her had been her apology, but the very way he'd been affected by it—and even by the innocent touch of her hand on his—had warned him he was far from indifferent to her now.

Not so innocent. Her gesture had been childish, but had elicited in her an adult reaction. He hadn't mistaken the hitch in her breath for fear this time, and that perception had shaken him and changed how he saw her irrevocably. Like a trick picture of dots forming an image—once you saw the pattern, you couldn't un-see it.

This wasn't the time to gaze at his navel. If he were to function, he needed to go, if anything, in the other direction and be even more the bastard. All the more reason not to let the witch affect him.

He had let her come far too close. From now on he would have to be on his guard. He could allow her no leeway, make no apologies, just because he felt a pathetic need for understanding from her. _Yes, and look how easily your resolve to drive her away was shaken last night_. Cutting at her now seemed to be like making little slashes to his skin. Well, he and pain were old, faithful companions. Even Hermione would eventually tire of suffering his moods to win an ugly, crooked smile.

His smiled bitterly and found the accompanying stretch of his skin made him wince. His nose throbbed. He went in search of a potion to ease those hurts he could.

o0o

Snape leaned against the wall by the window that looked under the lake surface. The waters caused a greenish cast to the light and permeated the stones with a mossy scent. He had called his prefects into the Slytherin common room for a lunch-time meeting. When he'd entered, the pewter snake at the base of the lamp by the door had lifted its head, and one ruby eye had winked at him. He had always found the room comforting, safe. The Marauders hadn't been able to follow him in here.

He crossed his arms as he stared at the group standing in front of him. Despite the comfortable upholstered chairs about the room, none sat—he had not invited them to sit. His fifth-year prefects Robert Harper and Katriana Avery seemed wound tight, and both kept looking to Livia Rosier, which in itself was disturbing. Harper's eyes kept darting to Snape's and back, and Miss Avery kept picking at a thread on her robe. Zabini and Bulstrode regarded Snape quietly, giving him little clue as to what was going on in their minds. Snape approved of their restraint.

"This is about Bell, isn't it, Professor?" Adrian Pucey asked, a pinched, too-old expression on his face. When he had entered the room, he had given Snape a long, knowing stare.

Snape cocked an eyebrow. "I hardly need to say a thing then do I, Mister Pucey? Perhaps you'd like to brief the other prefects?" The young man appalled Snape at times with his directness, giving too much away.

Pucey didn't flinch though. "The whole school is talking about it. Blaming one of us."

Snape stiffened even though he had expected it. Sick as it made him to admit it, this time he couldn't dismiss the usual suspicions against Slytherin as paranoia. He was no longer the only Death Eater within these walls. "Has suspicion fallen on anyone in particular?"

Livia Rosier, his other seventh-year prefect, giggled at his words in a gurgling way reminiscent of her mother, who he'd known far too intimately when they'd been students for him to be entirely comfortable with her daughter. Messalina Rosier née Mulciber had been, along with Lucius and Regulus, Snape's sponsors into the Death Eaters. Livia Rosier sported the same knowing look as Pucey, but also a slight upward curve to those full lips—as if she was much happier about events than Pucey. She twirled a lock of hair, the same toffee colour as her mother's, around a finger. "Some think it's Warrington. Bell turned him down when he asked her out."

Bulstrode rolled her eyes at that and crossed her arms. "Oh, yes, that's likely. They say opals were used for the curse and that Madam Rosmerta was Imperio'd. Warrington have opals or cast Imperius? The Warringtons are about as rich as the Weasleys, and I'd bet on Longbottom or Goyle to achieve an Imperius before Warrington."

"You consider casting an Unforgivable an achievement, Miss Bulstrode?" Snape asked.

Her cheeks flamed, but Snape gave her credit for looking steadily back at him. "It's a very advanced spell, sir. I'm not sure I could do it."

"I fervently hope, Miss Bulstrode, you'll never try."

"I thought you said all knowledge is worth having? I could see good uses for it. What if you used it to make a criminal stop running, or to keep someone from committing suicide?"

"That all knowledge is worth having does not mean it's worth using. And this isn't time for an ethics lesson, Miss Bulstrode, or a lecture on that spell's practical limits, but let me assure you each Unforgivable does not only affect the subject but the caster in ways that are irrevocable."

"In a way that would be visible, sir?" Zabini asked.

"Perhaps."

Zabini's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he gave Snape a pleading look. Snape decided he'd have to question Zabini later apart from the others.

His eyes swept over all of them. "There is reason to believe Miss Bell wasn't the primary target. That she was only a way of delivering the necklace to the intended victim. Think for a moment what that means if rumour is correct and the attacker is one of us. Among _us_. Whoever did this apparently did not care who else got caught in their net. I do not want the next victim to be one of _ours_. This is neither a game nor a joke."

He stared then at Livia Rosier until she looked away. Her position as a prefect was due to one of the periodic bones he had to throw the Death Eaters' way. Snape had few doubts Rosier would become a Death Eater like both of her parents. Katriana Avery was another from a family that could boast two generations of service to the Dark Lord, but Snape still had hope she would steer clear.

Dumbledore continually used the presence of Slytherins like Rosier and Avery, even Zabini, as reasons for not advancing any Slytherin to positions of trust within the school. That very distrust took a toll on the Puceys, the Averys, the Harpers, Bulstrodes and Zabinis—only made it more likely they'd ultimately give their loyalties to the Dark Lord. Snape considered Dumbledore's attitude hypocritical from one who claimed to be battling blood-prejudice.

Rosier he couldn't trust because of her character, not her heritage, but he hoped he could trust her sense of self-preservation.

Unless, of course, as seemed likely, Draco was responsible. Rosier would consider herself immune from danger then, see the attack as on behalf of the Dark Lord. If Rosier learned Draco was behind the attack, she would probably drop to her knees and kiss the hem of Draco's robe—before proceeding to more intimate forms of homage if she were truly anything like her mother.

Before dismissing the prefects, Snape admonished them to keep careful watch and report back to him—holding Zabini back with a nod.

"Sir, that Saturday. Well, I was around The Three Broomsticks, I just happened to see Granger heading there and followed—"

"Just happened?" Snape smirked at Zabini.

Zabini gave Snape a small grin but then stared away from him at the lake window. Zabini sounded hesitant when he began to speak. "I bumped into Malfoy going into The Three Broomsticks."

"Mister Malfoy was serving detention with Professor McGonagall that afternoon."

"I'm sure of what I saw. I wonder if Malfoy's figured out how to be in two places at once? Polyjuice maybe? I don't know, but later, after what happened to Bell, I saw him running past me as if a Grim were after him. He looked—well, even more whey faced than usual. And when the talk came up at the table … he was very quiet. Usually he'd be speculating on who did something like that, or blaming Potter somehow, or boasting even if he had nothing to do with it. But instead Malfoy was just—quiet." He looked back at Snape then, seeming to gauge his reaction.

"I see." Snape felt as if all the blood was draining from his body, as if he'd just received a sentence of execution. As if he hadn't needed more confirmation of the deadly nature of Draco's task—the task he might have to complete. Moreover, unlike with Hermione when he'd caught her cheating, he could not give Draco a dressing down. Instead, Snape could only watch while the young man he'd had such hopes for slipped into the abyss.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Snape desperately wanted to sit down but was damned if he'd show weakness in front of Zabini. Albus, Poppy, Minerva, Pomona, even Hermione, hovered over him at times as if he were a terminal patient, and apt as that treatment might be, he was sick of it. That was all he needed—to add Zabini to the list. He abruptly laughed. "I'm fine."

"Sir, I'd like to help. Really help, I mean. I've been thinking of what the Headmaster said to me when you took me to his office about the lessons. I'm coming along fast, aren't I? More advanced than Granger? When I go home—"

"Absolutely not."

"But, sir—"

"What are you, a Slytherin or a Gryffindor?" Zabini tightened his lips at that, and Snape broke into a genuine laugh. "Don't tell me—the Hat offered—"

"The Headmaster said our choices define us. I'm perfectly happy with the one I made six years ago." Zabini gave him a feral grin. "To look for friends among the 'cunning folk.' I'd think Slytherin himself would approve of using cunning."

"He was not a man who approved of causes."

"It's your cause, too." Zabini's voice was low but intense. "When you took me to the Headmaster that way, when he told me I would be training with Granger and I had to be quiet about it, I knew. Especially since I'd heard, how you were once—"

"Don't be an arse. We have enough would-be boy heroes."

Zabini's nostrils flared, and he clenched his fists. "And only Gryffindors can be heroes—maybe with a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw sidekick noted in the footnotes."

Snape shook his head. He lifted a hand to lay it on Zabini's shoulder but then dropped it and clenched his hands at his sides. Such gestures were rare with him—but he'd made the effort with Draco, and look where it had got them. "Go home. Survive. Come back. Finish school. Manage not to bugger up your life. That's all I ask."

"And watch Malfoy like a hawk?"

Snape let out a breath at Zabini's seeming concession, though he didn't trust the glitter in the young man's eyes and the set of his jaw. "That would be appreciated."

o0o

Snape frowned as he concentrated on his notes at the day's end. He scribbled Arithmantic equations in the margins, trying to figure out what the effect of the curse-breaking charm might be if he infused it with Felix Felicis, trying to skew some of the variables. Pity there weren't Arithmantic equations that could tell him how to deal with Hermione, Draco, Zabini, the whole of Slytherin. He looked up as the door creaked open.

"Miss Granger."

"I know, I'm not supposed to be here today, etcetera—well, before you snarl and growl—"

"I was thinking more of a hiss and rattle."

She crossed the distance to his desk. "Today is my day for making things right—or as much as I can." She grimaced. "With Ron that meant an invitation to the Slug Club Christmas party, so he'd stop feeling so left out. With you … " She drew out of her satchel two thick leather-bound volumes. "First, the task, I dare say penance, you set me—I finished transcribing those parts of the book I found into the ledger. And … and I also brought you this."

He drew towards him the volume he didn't recognise and began to flip through the pages. He imagined Hermione must have fallen asleep with the book's cover pressed against her for he caught a faint whiff of her clean, apple scent. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"It's a Durmstrang text." She swallowed hard. "It's where I found the Confundus Charm."

He snapped the book shut, drummed his fingers along the backing, then pushed the black leather book back to her. "Keep it. Study it well."

"It's illegal in Britain."

"So are magic carpets and pewter cauldron bottoms of less than five millimetres thick."

"I thought you … especially after what I'd done … "

"What? That I'd like to burn it? What blasted good would that do? Miss Granger, I assure you, not only does every Durmstrang student know what is in this book, so do much of pure-blood Britain and every Death Eater family. I don't object to you knowing that spell, one day it might save your life. The line between offensive and defensive magic, between Light and Dark, is hardly distinct, whatever the Ministry might think."

"I get it, I do. It's _how_ I used it. If I had to do it all over again … What do I have to do to convince you I understand and make things right between us?"

"That is the point. There is no 'us.' If you're looking for forgiveness, go and find McLaggen and try to make it up to him, even if you can't tell him what you did. If you're looking for a friend, go and spend time with those your own age."

"I don't see what age has to do with anything."

He crossed his arms and shook his head. "Perhaps I can visit you in Gryffindor Tower. We can play Exploding Snap or Gobstones. Then we can go together one Saturday to Honeydukes where I can get some Chocolate Frogs and you Sugar Quills—"

He stopped at her peal of giggles. She broke off at his glare then resumed laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. "Oh, I am sorry, but that's ridiculous. What makes you think I like any of those things? Don't you see? The truth is it's just as ridiculous that I'll ever be able to discuss advanced Potions techniques with Ron without him telling me within ten seconds what a little swot I am. And Harry? If I tried discussing Arithmancy with him, his eyes would glaze over."

Snape's eyes widened, and she seemed to read his thought when she grinned and said, "I know, I have a strange idea of fun for a girl my age."

Despite her smile, her tone held a bitterness Snape found achingly familiar. He frowned, then shook his head. "A friendship is not made up of intellectual discussions alone," he said, "and if you are bereft of intellectual companionship, you have only yourself to blame for not looking beyond Gryffindor."

"I am looking." The look she turned on him made his throat tighten so much he found it hard to speak.

She drew even closer to him, coming behind the desk. As her face came into the penumbra of the candlelight, he drew in a breath, noticing some red marks across her throat. "What's this?" Without giving his action any thought, he rose and moved aside her hair to get a closer look at her neck, which was covered with livid, if shallow scratches.

"Snargaluff stumps." Her voice sounded a bit breathy.

Realising how close they were, how he was still touching her hair, he abruptly let go of the feathery curls. "I have some salve. You don't want these to get infected." He opened a drawer where he kept some of his basic medical supplies—those he used to tend to himself when his hurts were slight enough to avoid Poppy's ministrations. Hermione perched herself on the edge of the desk by the drawer he was rummaging in. He held out the round tin to her by the edges to avoid contact with her, and she took it from him just as gingerly, as if dealing with a particularly volatile brew.

She threw back her hair, loosened her tie and began spreading the salve on her skin. He swallowed as he watched her fingertips trail down her throat, and he moved further away from her.

"What do you want from me?" He stared at her, but she refused to draw away or drop her eyes. _Foolish girl. It would be so easy to use Legilimency on her right now._ But he wouldn't, regretted having forced it last time, and her trust seemed a stronger defence—against him—than he liked to think about.

"Can't we just go back at least to the way we were before? I wasn't just set to be your student but your assistant, and I know I can contribute so much if you just let me that far in."

"Have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

The way she jutted her chin out in answer reminded him of Messalina, a girl sent twenty years ago on behalf of a different master to "befriend" him. Her timing had been perfect. Weeks before, Florence, the first girl he'd ever kissed, had thoroughly humiliated him behind the Greenhouse. Messalina had first started her wooing right after the Shrieking Shack incident and Dumbledore's dismissal of it as a mere prank. She'd played on how Snape could find protection and appreciation among the right kind. Her seeming attraction to him had been a balm after the last tatters of his friendship with Lily had been ripped out; he had yearned for so much more from her but could only watch as she had turned to James.

Well, he wasn't a green boy any longer. "Your dedication is commendable, but I'm sure the Headmaster did not require … _friendship_." He spat out that last word as if he'd just bit down on something bitter.

"This has nothing to do with him. All right, maybe at one time it did … please, don't look at me like that. Yes, the Headmaster said he hoped the lessons, my assistance would draw us closer, but I'd never feign—"

"Perhaps not, but it's amazing what we can convince ourselves of feeling when it suits our purposes."

She glared at him and slapped the desk. "You're absolutely impossible! I don't know why I try or why I care." She pivoted away from him and shoved the Durmstrang text into her satchel, then peered back at him and laid the tin on his desk. "I don't know who or what you're judging me by, but I'm not like that."

He laughed abruptly. "You're even more impudent than before our argument."

"I have nothing left to lose, I suppose. You might as well see me for who I am. I have it on good authority I'm an insufferable know-it-all and a bossy boots—and those are my good qualities."

She smiled at him, and it was an effort not to return it. He knew he had to cut this bond forming between them. Yet he had to teach her, prepare her for what was to come. And he _could_ use her assistance. She hadn't just found the journal article he'd used to adapt the curse-breaking charm; it had been one of her comments on the time stasis charms used on potions that had given him the idea of just how to adapt it. What if by cutting her off, he missed something crucial?

_Face it. It's __you_ who don't want to be cut off from her, who is looking for an excuse because you've missed her.

He decided then he'd shift her training from Occlumency to Legilimency … let her see some carefully prepared images in his mind. That would remove the stars in her eyes, kill her attraction to him and his response to it, harden and train her all at the same time, and ultimately help make her a strong Occlumens. It would work similarly on Zabini as well, take the hero worship out of him—teach him exactly what the "rewards" of cunning were before Albus could work on the side that had led the Hat to think of Gryffindor for Zabini.

He sat back down at his desk and put the ledger in a drawer. "Bring the book you were working on to our next lesson. I'll need to borrow it for a while." He'd set Zabini to adding what he saw to Hermione's notations. "I'll be too busy this week to give you any lessons. I'll see you here the following Friday after classes."

"Can't I help? If it regards research or—"

He felt a faint touch of a hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off. "You are dismissed, Miss Granger."

Part of Snape rebelled against that brusque dismissal, at what he what he was planning to do to her and Zabini. The same part that had jumped up and down and thrown a tantrum in the Hospital Wing when he'd been denied the ultimate revenge against the Marauders—an Order of Merlin—the ultimate Gryffindor prize. The part of him that hungered to see admiration, respect, even affection in the eyes of others, or at least those he cared about. He tamped down hard on that impulse. One way or another such regard for him would be destroyed anyway—or he would be. He began to plan just what rotted part of his soul to best expose to his prize students.

o0o

Snape stilled a moment by the door. Warm, girlish laughter bubbled up from inside his office, followed by a male's. Snape scowled. He couldn't honestly say he was happy with the development, but Hermione had finally warmed to Zabini to the youth's evident delight.

The Legilimency lessons themselves had encouraged informality between all of them. In some ways, at least at first, Occlumency was the easier discipline, thus making it all the more necessary to use techniques that facilitated Legilimency: physical contact and comfort, the right breathing.

Zabini was sensitive enough that he'd been able to pick up images in Hermione's mind at first attempt, although that didn't mean he necessarily found it easy to let go enough for another to read him. Hermione had strained to read Zabini in vain. So Snape had used an old technique of Albus's despite its indignities. First, Snape took them back to basics, breathing, ground and centre. Afterwards, he had made Hermione and Zabini sit on the ground, hold hands and stare into each other's eyes as Hermione cast the spell aloud. When Hermione had managed to pick up an image from Zabini's last session, she had whooped with delight.

Given such close contact, Hermione hadn't been able to miss the scar on the back of Zabini's hand—the scar he'd earned from Umbridge. Hermione had asked "Why?" and Zabini had stumblingly answered, and thereafter she'd visibly relaxed around him, finally returned his bids at conversation.

So in the end, it had been a Gryffindor sort of sentiment that had sealed their ease. Regulus, his tutor on all things Slytherin, had told Snape that scars are a mark of failure, demonstrating that you'd allowed yourself to be hurt. Only Gryffindors display them like chocolate frog cards. Regulus had been brilliant at the Dark Arts, had wanted to be Head of Slytherin someday—had taken the cursed D.A.D.A. job straight out of school.

Ironic Snape had thought of that just now, since Regulus would be the subject of tonight's lesson if Snape judged his students ready.

He entered with a swirl of his robes and ducked as feathered balls of yellow streaked towards him. "What—" He felt something alight on his head and dig tiny talons into his scalp, then another canary alighted at his shoulder while twittering sounded all about him.

"Miss Granger!" At his bellow, he lost one passenger who circled before choosing a jar of preserved Bowtruckle for a perch. He brushed off the yellow ball of fluff at his shoulder who flew back to Hermione and buried itself in her hair.

"A bird in the hand is—"

"Don't finish that sentence, Zabini, or you're a dead man," said Hermione.

Zabini grinned and waved his hands in mock terror. As Zabini helped untangle the canary, Snape strode to his desk. He looked down at a parchment there and held it up to the pair sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other. "Admittedly, bird shit on this particular student's essay is only fitting, but if there's _one_ spot on even one of my books … "

"Sorry, Professor, Blaise was just asking what the trick was to transfiguring a flock of canaries."

"It's quite advanced magic, sir. Hermione was the only one who managed it in class last week. Professor McGonagall said it's the sign of someone who could become an Animagus someday."

Snape found it hard to begrudge Hermione her rather smug look and smile at the praise. Her recent misery had been palpable enough that he'd put off his plans to "enlighten" this pair about his Death Eater past. He'd noticed that while she'd been particularly subdued in class the last several days, Ronald Weasley had been positively glowering. He'd overheard Miss Rosier tell Miss Wilkes that she'd seen Weasley and Granger have a blazing row last Saturday after Quidditch practice behind the pitch. He had wanted to ask Hermione about it, let her talk it out as she probably couldn't even with Potter or Ginevra Weasley since they'd be caught in the middle.

But that was the sort of question a friend asked, wasn't it?

He hung up his teaching robes and took off his boots and sat by his students, resting his back against the desk.

"Miss Granger will attempt Legilimency first. Now remember," Snape said, "this is as much about trying to project as it is trying to receive and thus will make you a stronger Occlumens—since you'd just reverse the process. Mister Zabini, I want you to relax … " Snape continued speaking in a soft monotone, watching as Zabini's breathing deepened and his body lost its tension, his eyelids closing until Hermione's softly incanted, "_Legilimens,_" caused them to snap open.

Whatever Hermione saw caused her to blanch and Zabini to immediately break their handclasp. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Not as sorry as I am, Granger," Zabini said, his voice very soft.

"Maybe we"—she glanced at Snape—"should stop for a while."

Snape wondered what in Zabini's personal gallery of horrors Hermione had glimpsed, but stayed quiet, not wanting to push Zabini into even more revelations than the young man had bargained for.

"No," Zabini said, his face a mask. "You won't be doing me any favours. Maybe now you can understand why I have to learn this."

"All right." Hermione still seemed shaken, and she wiped her palms on her uniform skirt before turning to gaze at Zabini. "Your turn."

Snape didn't even bother to repeat the exercise. Neither the relaxation techniques nor physical contact was necessary for Zabini to read Hermione. Snape thought that eventually Zabini, like the strongest of Legilimens, might not even need a wand at all.

Hermione took a deep breath nevertheless and made an effort to relax as Zabini gazed into her eyes and softly spoke the incantation. The next moment her eyes widened, and she gasped, wiggling back away from him.

"You slept with the Bulgarian Seeker? Krum?" Zabini's voice rose to a squeak.

Snape's head snapped up, and as he forced a stony expression on his face, Hermione said, "You weren't supposed to see that, but yes, I did. What of it?" Her face got very red, and she balled her fists at her sides.

"We do not need to discuss your celebrity lovers, Miss Granger," Snape said, his voice icy.

"Don't you start," Hermione said, her voice cracking. "That was well over a year ago, but I'm sure Skeeter would still be interested. Maybe someone can tip her off, and you can read that article aloud in class too? Tell me I'm a scarlet woman and a groupie like Ron did?"

Noting the strain on her face, Snape chose not to respond to her admonishment of him with other than a quelling look, and Hermione dropped her gaze.

"Weasley found out? That's what you argued about?" Zabini asked.

"Oh, no, the argument was about how wrong it was to _snog_ Viktor."

"Oh, so that's why Weasley has been going around like first years are nine pins, and he's the skittle ball." Zabini looked at Snape and shrugged at his inquiring look. "I don't think Weasley even realised he _could_ take off points last year, but he's been making up for it this year. He's not happy, he tends to take it out on the Slytherin hourglass among other things, finding ways to take off points left and right."

"Ron wouldn't."

"Right, Granger, because you've never seen him force others out of his way and no Gryffindor prefect would ever be unfair." Zabini rolled his eyes. "Look, I know _you'd_ never abuse your position—"

Hermione abruptly got off the floor, startling Zabini into silence. "Let's not waste more time on my so-called friends and love life shall we?" She stood and faced Snape. "Didn't you say you had a special lesson planned tonight?"

Snape rose from the floor, and Zabini followed his lead. Snape drew a harsh breath. "This might not—"

"Why not? You said a great deal of emotion facilitates Legilimency? Sounds like this is the _perfect_ time."

Snape nodded. "Very well, Miss Granger."

He shrugged and rolled his shoulders then rubbed the back of his neck, trying hard not to tense up. Last night had been All Hallows' Eve, and his dead had felt closer to him than usual. As he had two nights before that, before going to sleep, he'd prepared for this lesson by reliving his act in a Pensieve. Like a Pensieve, for the person casting it, _Legilimency_ gave an outside perspective, not the faint, inner image of memory. Seeing himself from all those years ago … He had even slept away from the dream catcher last night, welcoming any nightmares, and they had come. He needed this over with, dreaded having to prepare himself for this again.

"Nevertheless," said Snape, "as you have just discovered, if you do not discipline yourself, whatever is on your mind can easily come spilling out. We're going to try something different tonight. You will both try simultaneously to read _me_." Snape sat up on the edge of the desk and took a deep breath. "Ready your wands." An anticipatory shudder went through him.

He nodded at them and, together, Hermione and Zabini incanted, "_Legilimens_."

He showed them a vision of black-haired teenagers wearing Slytherin ties. One with a hawkish nose—recognisable as a young Snape—grinned and clapped the other on the shoulder. The other teenager, who held a snitch aloft in his hand, had the kind of face artists carve in marble. Next, the same two, with a toffee-haired girl, ran down the steps of Hogwarts linking arms.

He allowed those images to flash past, barely permitting the details to be taken in, like what they'd have typically experienced in Legilimency. He formed the next image slowly, like film dipped in developer: The same three in a dark room with a shadowy figure in a corner with red eyes burning like embers.

Some details had been etched in Snape's brain by nightmares. How Lucius and Rabastan had dragged Regulus, his ankles wobbling, to the centre of the room. How one eye had been swollen shut, the lid purple. When the two men had let go, Regulus had fallen to the floor, holding out one hand to break his fall. Snape had heard the wrist bone snap.

He continued the stream of images, showing a girl strolling to the young man at the room's centre and kissing him. She licked at the blood trickling down his chin, then slapped him and turned and walked away.

Snape remembered how the bile had risen in his throat at the vampirish act. Refusing to believe Messalina had done that, he had felt disembodied, as if he were dreaming.

Next on view, a younger Snape strode towards the young man and raised his wand. The man shook his head sharply, said something. Young Snape's face hardened into a rictus, then he flicked his wand and a green light flashed out. Young Snape fell to the floor at the same time as the man, as if felled by his own curse, turned away and started retching.

_"Please, Severus," Regulus had said. Please what? Just do it? Help me?_

The Pensieved-enhanced images ended, and Snape clutched the edge of the desk to keep from falling to the floor. His lower lip stung and felt swollen, and a coppery taste filled his mouth. He slowly focused his eyes on the present. Hermione's face hovered beside him—she was pale and a film of sweat covered her face. She clutched at his arm, helping him to keep his balance, and he could feel her shaking as she held on. As soon as he righted himself, she let go and slowly backed away from him and didn't stop before she hit the wall.

Zabini shivered, hugged himself tightly. "You controlled that. You wanted us to see that. Why?"

Snape traced his lip with a finger, which came away bloody. "Why did I do it, or why did I show you?"

"You had to kill him?" Hermione asked. "Imperio'd? Because you had to keep your cover, and he'd have died anyway—"

"Why no, Miss Granger. Because he had betrayed the Dark Lord and I wanted to make my mark. _Earn_ my Dark Mark." Snape slowly rolled up his left sleeve. "Did you think this a fancy tattoo? Not every Death Eater is so honoured. Unless you're of a particularly distinguished bloodline and they want to lock in your loyalties, you must prove yourself, particularly back then. It's quite simple—to get the Dark Mark you either commit an Unforgivable or you pledge to do so within a year. And you will not like the consequences if you renege, because then _you_ will be the one led to the centre of the room and your closest colleague will have a have a go at making _their_ mark."

"I've heard you have to hate the person." Hermione whispered. "But it didn't look so simple."

"You have to mean it," Snape replied. "Hating helps. And I hated him. Hated him for putting me into that situation, both by helping to recruit me into the Death Eaters then betraying us."

"He was your friend?" Zabini asked.

"He was my best friend," Snape said.

For a long time the only sound filling the room was the ragged sound of their breathing.

Snape looked at their frightened faces. _Mission accomplished._ His face contorted, and he saw them both flinch in reaction to his expression. "Here endeth the lesson. Class dismissed."

He didn't watch but just listened to the sound of them quickly getting their things and walking out and shutting the door. Snape shut his eyes, but his mind still filled with images of long ago. He groped along his desk until he found his seat.

He didn't know how long he sat there. Likely several hours, noting how much the candles had burned down. _This is what you wanted, isn't it?_ Finally, Snape extinguished the candles with a softly spoken, "_Nox_," and made his solitary way back to his quarters in Slytherin. 

o0o

**to be continued**

**A/N: **FFN does not allow answers to reviews on author's notes, and I'm reluctant to respond by email when that's not how the reviewswere sent. That doesn't mean I don't greatly appreciate every review.


	10. Chapter Ten Dreams and Nightmares

Disclaimer: ©2007 harmony bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur nonprofit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.K.Rowling or any other lawful holder.

My thanks to _**Djinn**_ and _**Bambu**_ for their betas, _**Clare009**_ for suggestions and _**lifeasanamazon**_ for her Britpick.

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Dreams and Nightmares**

o0o

Hermione could hear the raucous cheering and laughter through the closed entrance into the Gryffindor common room. Moving closer, she heard a snatch of "Weasley is Our King" sung in an off-key tenor. Bitterness roiled over her at the sounds, making her face twist. _Hooray, we won._ She took a deep breath, preparing herself to face Harry and Ron again.

All right, so Harry hadn't spiked Ron's pumpkin juice with _Felix Felicis_ as he'd allowed her and Ron to believe; Harry hadn't cheated. Lied to her, tricked her along with Ron, but not cheated. But Harry had made it clear to her that she'd lost his trust and all credibility, any influence over him. Reason 1,001 that her cheating at the trials had been a disaster. One Snape had actually forgotten to list.

When she'd told Harry this morning he should be expelled for using the lucky potion to win Quidditch, he had thrown her actions during the trials back in her face. "Hark, who's talking," Harry had said. "Confunded anyone lately?"

She should have turned in that stupid Potions book of the Prince's at the beginning of term. That had been her first mistake. Harry wouldn't have got in trouble for possessing the annotated text had she done that at the start. Harry might not have spoken to her for months—he hadn't over her turning in the Firebolt. But she wasn't sure how much she could or should be protecting Harry from himself.

That book had made her feel uneasy from the moment she'd seen it. They still didn't know who the author of the scribbled marginalia was, and she didn't like how the text had just conveniently fallen into Harry's lap—he hadn't sought out the knowledge, he hadn't learned it for himself nor were the spells and techniques of a kind known and approved.

At least the magic in her Durmstrang text had known authors and consequences. But this? Every time Harry used the thing, he wasn't just cheating, using a resource other students didn't have access to, but reaping the rewards from a too easy, unearned knowledge. By now, the spells concerned her more than the potions. Harry was playing a magical Russian Roulette with that book. The spells he was learning, from muffling conversations to hanging people helpless in the air, were only getting scarier.

Ron was of no help to her in reaching Harry, indeed encouraged Harry in his dependence on "the Prince." And Ron had _thought_ he'd been cheating today. She wondered if he'd guessed her role in the trials after all, if that's why he'd been so touchy back in the changing room when she'd confronted him and Harry after the game. The way Ron had taunted her about whether she intended to turn them in … accused her of lack of faith in his ability to make saves without "help."

"Well," the Fat Lady said. "Are you going in? Because if you stand there much longer, any minute you're likely to get trampled."

Hermione made a face at the portrait, gave the password, "Dilligrout," and climbed through the portrait hole. She found it hard to move without jostling someone. When she scanned the crowd for Harry and Ron, two figures snapped into focus. All Hermione could think was that Ron needed an earworm to burrow a hole through his eardrum because that was the only way he was going to get air whilst sucking Lavender's face. Ron indecently moulded his body about Lavender. They broke the kiss, and Ron bent his head to her neck. The blonde twined her fingers through Ron's hair and flashed Hermione a triumphant look over his shoulder.

Hermione stumbled back out the portrait hole, feeling as if she would suffocate. She opened one of the stained-glass windows in the hallway, took in deep gulps of air as tears blurred her vision. She heard the portrait hole slide open, and she quickly closed the window and headed away from the common room. The last thing she wanted was for Lavender to learn she'd been crying; she didn't want to give the bitch the satisfaction.

When she turned a corner, she collided right into a wall of black wool. The sharp and sweet herbal odours of the Potions storeroom wafted to her from the fabric. _Snape_. She felt a momentary impulse to bury her head against his chest, to dig her fingers into his robe. She heard a quick indrawn breath, and then the memories of last night, the image of a flash of green crashed through her mind. Fear, revulsion slammed through her. She tore herself from the hands that had caught and righted her and sprinted away before Snape could say a cutting word or dock points.

Hermione hurried into the first empty classroom she could find and shut the door. Her heart pounded. She was terrified Snape would come after her. Her argument with Ron a fortnight ago about snogging Viktor had brought back memories of him and sweaty dreams of her first time that had left her tangled in her sheets. Only now the face in her dreams had morphed into one older, with a deep line between his brows. The thought of what nightmares those dreams might twist into had left her shaking last night, and she had drunk the last of the Dreamless Sleep Potion Pomfrey had given her after Dolohov's attack.

She should go back. She should go back and show them all she didn't care.

Hermione took a deep breath. She couldn't return to the common room like this, so upset that one word might reduce her to tears. She looked about her, at the scattered odd items on the shelves: teacups, flowerpots, knickknacks with which to work transfigurations. McGonagall's classroom.

She walked up to the front and sat on the polished teacher's desk. She had always liked to imagine herself up here teaching when she entered class. Trying to smother her fear, humiliation and hurt, she latched onto the confidence and pride that usually filled her whilst in this classroom.

A little light poured through an open window, the chalk dust in the air creating motes in the sunlight streaming in. She closed her eyes, gripped her wand and concentrated, wanting to do this without speaking the incantation aloud. She heard a soft whooshing sound and a pop, then the twittering of a canary.

_One._

Hermione considered Ron merely thoughtless most of the time, but this week she found it hard to believe he wasn't deliberately doing his best to cut her to pieces. And after this … a wave of nausea left her clutching her stomach with a trembling arm, trying to steady herself.

Just yesterday she'd heard Lavender's squeaky laugh when Professor Binns had turned his back. She had looked about to see Ron jumping up and down and waving his hands—in a parody of how she had just raised her own hand to give an answer before Terry or Blaise could be called on. Was that the bond between Lavender and Ron? Contempt for her? Ron knew. He _knew_ how miserable Lavender tried to make her. Malfoy had sniggered at Ron's display, and she'd wondered if Ron had noticed and cared he'd made her a target of Malfoy's scorn.

Harry had just turned his head away, his red face showing his embarrassment, but she felt as if it was as much of her as for her. She had risked her life for—built her life as a witch around—Harry and Ron, sacrificed her parents' trust for them both, and now she seemed little more than an embarrassment to one and an object of mockery for the other. Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed, tried to stuff down her feelings with the action, channel her hurt and rage into the magic.

She tried to force thoughts of Ron out of her mind, tried to focus on this advanced bit of transfiguration. Blaise had praised her ability just last night. His quickly smoothed over scowl on her behalf at Ron's mocking her in History of Magic had made her feel less alone.

Hermione could hear another canary pop out of the air and felt the brush of wings on her hair.

_Two._

And then another. _Three._

From the first time she'd met Ron on the Hogwarts Express, her attempts to fit in, be helpful, share her joy in all she'd learned had earned stunned looks, glares and scowls from him. That first year he had outdone Snape with his cruel comments. She had thought things had changed, that Ron had grown to trust and respect her, but now realised she always seemed on the edge of losing his friendship. Whether it was over Crookshanks, a stupid broom, snogging Viktor, or a careless remark from her that Ron took as disparaging his prowess in Quidditch.

Well, Ron could have Quidditch. This _she_ was good at.

_Four. Five._ That was more canaries than she had ever been able to conjure at one time.

She heard the door creak and opened her eyes. Through the yellow blur of canaries circling her, she saw Harry come in. Disappointment filled her. She wasn't sure if she wished it were Ron or Snape instead who had come looking for her. She bit back her impulse to snap at Harry, tried to sound nonchalant. "Oh, hello, Harry. I was just practicing."

"Yeah … they're—er—really good …." His eyes darted back and forth, as if mesmerised and a little frightened of her hovering yellow companions.

"Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations." Her face and voice tightened with her words.

"Er … does he?" Harry squirmed and pushed up his glasses nervously.

He'd seen then. And was trying to cover up for Ron. "Don't pretend you didn't see him. He wasn't exactly hiding it, was—"

The door opened and slammed against the wall. A laughing Ron pulled Lavender inside by the hand. Lavender's blouse was outside her skirt and buttoned partly askew.

"Oh," said Ron.

"Oops," Lavender said. She giggled as she backed out, slamming the door with a bang, leaving Ron behind.

Hermione stared at Ron. Bright red marks stood out on his neck … and streaks of lipstick on his collar. As her rage and hurt surged through her, the canaries around her fluttered more wildly, their twitters growing into agitated sharp chirps.

"Hi, Harry. Wondered where you'd got to," Ron said, his voice shaky but cheery in tone.

Ron had "wondered." Where _Harry_ had "got to." Apparently, she wasn't visible to Ron. He didn't glance her way.

She slid off the desk, feeling dizzy and hollow. The canaries kept up with her, twittering about her head like a feathered crown. "You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside. She'll wonder where you've gone."

Her legs felt heavy as she slowly walked towards the door. Glancing back at Ron was her undoing. He looked relieved to get off so easily. Happy to be rid of her. The pain of realising just how little she mattered to him was overwhelming. Without a thought, she pointed her wand at Ron and shrieked, "_Oppugno_!"

Her little flock sped like feathered arrows straight at him.

He yelped and his arms flew up to protect his face. The canaries pecked and clawed at his hands and forearms. "Get off!" he yelled.

Hermione's face contorted, her lower lip trembled. Sobbing, she gave Ron one last glare, before wrenching the door open.

She pushed past Lavender, barely registering the blonde's wide smile.

Hermione ran, not caring where her feet took her. She couldn't go back to her room. Didn't know when she could face going back. That was Lavender's room too. Ron _knew_ that. Oh, God, how could he? She ran down steps, fairly flying past the landings. Had one of the stairs taken that moment to swerve to the side she would have fallen right down to the dungeons. She found herself at the door to Snape's office and laughed. This is where she had fled without thinking? This represented safety? She turned away and trudged back up the stairs towards the outside and sunlight. Hagrid's hut and the lake on one side, the gates on the other, circumscribing how far she could go on a non-Hogsmeade day. She'd never felt so closed in.

o0o

In the week that followed, Lavender rubbed salt into Hermione's wounds with her pointed remarks, Ron splashed vinegar on them with every smile at his new bit of fluff … and Snape … Snape _was_ a wound. Not even her beloved library served as any kind of refuge this Sunday afternoon; she'd caught Ron and Lavender snogging in the stacks, so now she strolled by the lake alone.

Although this week, the library, studies, reading had provided little solace to her. She'd try to immerse herself in a book, or she'd be in the Prefect's bath soaking, or she'd be eating in the Great Hall and she'd flash back to what Snape had shown them. She had walked down to the office for the lessons, especially the first time after his revelation, with dread. She had felt relieved to see Blaise by the door, seemingly waiting for her there. He probably didn't want to be alone with Snape either.

Picking up a pile of flat pebbles, she threw them slantwise, trying to bounce them along the surface. She was out of practice, but by the third throw she managed to make a stone skip along the surface of the lake before it sank. Her father had taught her how, explaining the mechanics of objects striking water as opposed to the ground. He never seemed stumped by the standard questions like why the sky was blue. She supposed that's why she wanted magic to make sense, why she scorned divination. She simply applied the logic of science to magic, or tried to, whilst her father had hit the reality of magic and skidded to a stop rather than skipping across, unable to smoothly integrate its existence into his worldview. She wished she could still bring her problems and questions to him.

She still wanted things, people, to make sense. Snape didn't. What he'd shown them didn't.

Snape had been at his worst in D.A.D.A. since his revelation. Though strangely not with her or Harry. Ron and Lavender seemed the special target of his wrath, and she'd found it hard at times not to crack a smile. Parvati had speculated last night at dinner that the man just hated to watch "young love," having "never shagged anyone but himself." Hermione had almost choked on her chicken.

In her Occlumency lessons with Blaise, Snape had been, for him, subdued. Gone was the informality of the weeks before the revelation that had sent her reeling. Before that, from learning in the first year that he had been protecting Harry and the Stone, to learning in the fourth year he spied for them, to her times with him this year, every time she'd learned something new about Snape, she'd been ashamed to realise that she'd judged him unfairly—and now he'd shoved in her face that she had perhaps gone too far in the other direction. She hadn't begun to guess at the darkness of his past; she may have invested a trust and caring in him he didn't deserve.

Yet it had been hard not to take in how drawn Snape seemed and not feel the old concern returning. And that made her feel vaguely guilty, as if she were betraying this unknown dead man, this close friend of Snape's he so carefully had never named.

She was only glad that this week Snape hadn't tried to break into her mind and intrude into her consciousness himself. Instead, he had set Hermione and Blaise in turn against each other. He had just sat at his desk marking student papers, occasionally offering disdainful directions.

As if her thoughts had conjured it, from the corner of her eye, she caught a billowing black cloak disappearing down a trail, and focused her glance narrowly on the stones at her feet. That's how she had got through the last hellish week. With her head down.

Hearing the crunch of feet through the fallen leaves, she glumly looked up, readying herself for a confrontation for which she didn't yet feel ready.

"Hermione."

Not Snape. Blaise.

He stopped some feet away and was half-turned away from her, as if trying to pretend he wasn't with her. "You didn't come. To the Slug Club."

She frowned at the distance he kept. After all that had happened this past week, she had no patience for the game. "Yes, well, I didn't feel in the mood for your brooding scowls and Ginny's idea of wit."

Ginny's disdain for Blaise had been evident and vocal from the start, but her attitude towards Hermione stemmed from her break with Ron. A taunt of Ginny's had set Ron off about Viktor. When Hermione had confronted Ginny about that, she had retorted Hermione's problem was that she hadn't firmly staked her claim to Ron, making him insecure. The louder Hermione had insisted she couldn't care less who Ron snogged and groped—and why—the more red-faced Ginny had become until they were shouting each other down.

Blaise stood still a moment by the shore, then shook his head and turned to leave. She caught him by the sleeve. "Don't go."

"I can't afford to be seen—"

"With a Mudblood?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you have, haven't you? Used the word. Or at least never objected when you've heard it spoken."

His voice was tight and his throat worked. "You of all people—you saw—you know."

She nodded. She'd seen Blaise punished by a stunning dark-skinned woman—with Cruciatus. He'd looked all of six. And she'd heard the rumours about his mother. Her last husband had been a Death Eater. Still. She found it hard to believe just acting friendly towards her would put Blaise in any kind of danger. She thought of Sirius, who'd had the courage to turn his back on his poisonous relations and had survived it with only his name blasted from the family tapestry. Hermione squared her shoulders. "I know you're a prefect, and an example to the rest of Slytherin—"

"Is this what you wanted to talk about?"

Hermione bit her lip. "No, no, I think you know—"

Blaise began to walk away.

Looking around, she didn't see anyone. "Blaise!" She hurried after him.

He stopped by a tree, but kept his back to her, his posture stiff and hands clenched at his sides. "You ask me to stick my neck on the chopping block—for nothing—for _words_—but the entire lot of you Gryffindors couldn't be arsed to piss in our direction if a Slytherin were burning at the stake. Hell, you'd probably be the first to toast marshmallows by our embers whilst the Weasley twins sold the skewers."

"What is this? Hate Hermione week? Do I have some sign stuck on my back? Have I said anything to deserve that?"

Blaise took another step.

"Dammit!" She could hear the shrillness in her tone. "Don't you dare walk away from me! For weeks you've been the smooth charmer, acting like you wanted my friendship. Well, act like it."

He slowly turned around and flung himself to a seated position on the ground. The movement was strangely awkward for such a usually graceful person.

She sat down beside him. They'd be hidden from view by the trees and bushes. _Enough cover for the Slytherin pure-blood not to fear he'd be spotted with the Mudblood._ Some of her bitterness faded though at the evidence of misery on Blaise's face. He looked like he'd been sleeping as badly as she had been.

"Blaise, about Snape … "

Blaise gave a slow shake of the head. "You want me to explain him to you? I can't." He stared at her. "If you're going to ask me to turn him in—"

"No—"

"Why not? Because Dumbledore can still use him? Shouldn't murder make a difference?"

"Why would Snape show us what he did? I mean, that hardly inspires our trust. Does he want our fear? This could send him to Azkaban. If we told … why would … ?"

"A Slytherin hand over a weapon that can be used against him?" Blaise drew up his knees and clasped his arms about them. He spoke slowly and the rise in his voice, the catch in it, made her heart ache. "Misdirection?"

In lessons this past week, Blaise had locked his mind down tight, whilst cutting through Hermione's defences with ease. Snape, though, had pointed out that if Hermione hadn't yet mastered the trick of blocking, she had become deft at least at deflecting—throwing up innocuous images—better than Blaise. Snape had grudgingly conceded that was probably the more useful trick. "Misdirection," Snape had said, "might get someone rummaging about to move on, where resistance will draw attention."

"Oh, Blaise, you really think Snape made the vision up?"

"Well, how else does he fool You-Know-Who?" Blaise must have seen the pity in her eyes because he looked away. "It's just—I can't believe he'd do it. All right, I don't want to believe it. It's not that Snape is exactly a warm, fuzzy bloke with hugs like Sprout. But he's always made us feel safe. As long as he's here, nothing could ever happen to you. Last week, Vaisey got hit with a Bludger. Snape got him to the Hospital Wing, stayed with him 'til he was out of danger, whilst Vaisey's own father didn't bother to come."

Hermione realised then that in some ways Blaise thought of Hogwarts the same way Harry did—a refuge. And for Blaise it had been Snape who had made it so.

"Slytherin House," Blaise said, "well, we're not what people seem to think. A bunch of pampered rich. What is it that you think makes someone cunning, ambitious at eleven? Not cosy, secure little hearths and homes. It's learning to judge every footfall, every bang of a drawer to see what mood … Feeling hungry for more, thinking anywhere but here." Blaise's look turned inward. "Even away from Hogwarts, if you were one of his own … Snape talks to parents and afterwards …" Blaise shrugged. "Things get better."

Hermione wondered if one of those talks had been with Blaise's mother. That would certainly explain Blaise's protectiveness towards his Head of House.

Misdirection? Hermione's feelings for Blaise had begun to change when she'd learned how he'd earned one of Umbridge's detentions and gained the scar on his hand. He believed Snape could fake events with Legilimency. Could Blaise have done that himself, to further soften her towards him? "Did you make it up? What I saw with your mother?"

"No." His nostrils flared and veins strained on his neck.

"Did you deliberately set out to show me what you did—with your mother?"

"I made up nothing. My mind was on it. I'd just received a letter from her. I just wasn't trying to block. I wasn't _supposed_ to block." He looked squarely at her. "But what Snape showed us … It was different. You know it was. Something like that, if not staged, well, it wasn't natural. He showed us exactly what he wanted to—that I'm sure of." He sighed. "What do you intend …?"

"Oh—I don't know, Blaise. We do need him. Dumbledore must know already. Snape wouldn't show us that if the Headmaster didn't know. But how I feel, whether I can trust him … after learning this …."

"Please, don't be so naïve." He gave a bitter laugh. "Although I guess we've both been dunderheads to be so shocked. Snape's a Death Eater. I knew that before he showed us the Mark. Among certain families it's pretty well known he was one of those who got sent to Azkaban for it, even if he somehow got off. What do you think he did for You-Know-Who? Potions to stop his scales from itching?"

"I don't know. I suppose I tried not to think about it. And if I did, I told myself I couldn't judge him. I've done things …"

At Blaise's widened eyes, Hermione quickly shook her head. "Not as bad, but …. It's strange because Snape's the one who's been calling me on it, making me rethink … But I did what I thought I had to, to protect my friends. It's what I find so hard to get past. What he did, I could never do that to Harry." _Or Ron as much as I hate the bastard right now._ It had seemed to her this week as if he kissed Lavender or encircled her waist—only _after_ he noticed Hermione about. "Not even to save my life. Snape's best friend? If he could do that … What if it was me? Snape doesn't even like me and—"

"Oh, he likes you."

"What do you mean by that?"

But Blaise just shook his head and refused to answer.

Hermione laughed. "If Snape likes me, he has a strange way of showing it. But then I seem to have a talent for picking friends who don't really like me that much."

"I like you, Granger." He flashed a very white and charming grin that lit up his dark face.

"Do you?"

Blaise looked about them a moment, then took her hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. Leaning forward, he placed his lips on hers. He cupped the back of her head, pressing her closer and deepening the kiss. She felt a pleasant shock go through her, then a tingling sensation low in her belly as he continued to play with her hair and nuzzle her lips. She closed her eyes. _Nice._ He broke the kiss, and she felt a bit bereft.

"Believe me?" he asked.

She grinned at him. He wasn't the man who had filled her dreams these past weeks, and she felt a small pang at the thought as she tried to dismiss Snape from her mind. Whatever he might feel for her, he was still her teacher and out of bounds. And after what she'd learned, she shouldn't still want him. But Blaise …

"Well, I guess this means I won't have to ask anyone else to Slughorn's Christmas party?" Hermione's grin died at Blaise's blank expression. "Or I suppose not." She quickly levered herself off the ground and threw off Blaise's grab at her elbow. "You want to be friends on the terms you set. Fine. But don't ask me for more as long as you're not willing to be seen with me."

o0o

On Wednesday she was about to enter Snape's office for her lesson, when Blaise blocked her with his arm, putting his palm against the door. They had been diffident towards each other after their discussion by the lake, but Blaise looked determined to push through their earlier awkwardness. He glanced both ways, but not only was the passage clear, they both evidently were still included in Snape's wards. She—and she thought Blaise—had begun to take a certain privacy and security for granted outside the office door in the bubble of the charm.

"Would it really be so dangerous … being with me?" she asked.

He grimaced. "Let me just say that unlike my sister, I'd like to see seventeen."

Hermione couldn't hold back her gasp. "I'm so sorry." She found her own words inane, inadequate, but didn't know what else to say.

He gave a little shrug that spoke eloquently of resignation and how he took his monstrous situation as not worth fussing over. Normal—for him.

She ached to put an arm around him, yet his justifiable trepidation to be seen with her made her hesitant to make the gesture. Getting closer it seemed, would only hurt both of them.

"Hermione, about Snape, I think … "

"It's time. To deal with … what he showed us."

He slowly nodded.

With the shock worn off and time to think, really think, about why Snape had acted the way he did … "Blaise, did something happen between you and Professor Snape the week he showed us that memory?"

"I told him I wanted to help, really help."

"Spy?"

He gave a tight nod.

And she … she had tried again to push friendship upon Snape—_face it, you did more than that, you practically flirted with him_—and he'd acted in the oddest way, as if she'd appealed to some part of him, whilst still repulsing him. Scaring him?

"Hermione, what you asked—about my making up what you saw in my mind. Even if I could have … I know we're supposed to be the cunning ones, but that wouldn't be a very Slytherin thing to do, reveal weakness like that. Maybe Snape didn't fake that vision, but he did control what we saw and didn't see. And that vision can't tell us what he was thinking at the time really. Legilimency doesn't work that way. He'd be the sort to fling the worst in our face, but—"

"Not the kind to make excuses or show weakness. And yet Snape did. What we saw, it's played and replayed in my mind." _And in my nightmares._ "I think that's part of why I never doubted the reality of what he showed us. He looked more scared than scary."

Blaise nodded and opened the door. "Once more unto the breach …"

Hermione grinned. Apparently not all pure-bloods his age were as culturally clueless as Ron.

"My, my, aren't we early and eager for our lesson?" Snape asked when he looked up at their entrance, his voice quavering like an old man's. His tone had been missing its usual bite lately, at least when it was just the three of them, and perversely, Hermione missed his sharp sarcastic edge. His high collar was unbuttoned. Knowing him as she did, that hinted at some upset she was certain he wouldn't share.

Hermione and Blaise crossed the distance to Snape's desk and stood together near him. Blaise glanced at her, as if asking who should speak first. Finally, Hermione sighed and stepped next to Snape behind the desk. "You never did say why you showed us what you did."

"Quite. And it only took you two weeks to ask."

She took a deep breath. "We needed time. I wish you hadn't shown us."

"And if wishes were spells, who would need Hogwarts?" He twirled his quill, waving it at them like a wand. "Would you both like an Obliviate? Ignorance might be bliss, but not good for one's survival. You both wanted to get closer. Well, this is who I am. You both needed a reminder of what a Death Eater is."

Hermione looked at Snape a long time, worrying her lower lip. "Who you were," she said, speaking slowly. "Almost a boy—"

"I was older than either of you."

"—frightened out of his wits, whose hatred of what he was doing and who he was turning into was written on his face, who threw up afterwards." She met his gaze. "A man still so horrified by it all he bit through his own lip." She shook her head. "I didn't willingly reveal what Zabini saw—about Viktor. You … you stripped down to the ugliest, most naked part of yourself to teach us. You expected us to be horrified—and I was—and that I'd despise you for it. I can't."

"You wanted to scare me off, didn't you?" Blaise said. He shook his head. "For six years I've watched as you took care of us in Slytherin, fought for us, took risks to subtly warn us off and discourage us from joining You-Know-Who."

"And I've watched as you protected all of us, took risks for us, even Harry, well beyond anything required to keep up some act." Hermione glanced at Blaise. "And we both know what the Death Eaters are. That you may have had to do things …"

"The problem is I know evil." Blaise stared straight at Snape. "It's not you."

"Not evil? So you are here offering absolution? Forgiveness? You don't get to forgive me, you silly boy. You don't have the right—some things aren't forgivable."

"Maybe not. But let me ask you this. How long after _that_ … what you did … did you go to Dumbledore?"

"Not soon enough." Snape looked down a moment, his hair spilling forward to hide much of his face, but not before Hermione caught the flicker of pain in his eyes.

"I know how the Death Eaters work, sir," Blaise said. "If you hadn't cast the Killing Curse, someone else would have, but not before both of you were tortured, and you would have been killed as well. I heard—well about Yushenko and Karkaroff." Blaise looked back at Hermione. "Yushenko, Karkaroff's brother-in-law, tried to hide him from the Death Eaters. When the Death Eaters caught up with them, they Imperio'd both to torture each other. I heard some of my mother's friends talking." Blaise looked back at Snape. "See, I hear things without trying. That's why—"

"I told you no. We're not discussing this. Especially after what I showed you, you bloody fool." Snape shook his head. "You want me to prettify what happened, make excuses. I won't."

"I know," Hermione said. "That's why it's … I mean … well, not all right, but I won't, can't condemn you."

"You can't know if what you saw is the worst."

"Isn't it? Did you ever use an Unforgivable again?" Her tone was more accusatory than she had meant it to come out, a lash, and she saw the impact on his expression, which spoke volumes of how low his reserves of energy must be tonight, but she couldn't let go. "Because—"

He glared at her. "Not that one. But it's not that simple, and I'm not about to give you a full reckoning."

She stared at Snape, taking in his hollowed eyes and pallor. Whether to put this past them or not, deciding to see beyond his act was her choice. And with the choice to accept his past came a price. She knew she'd be untwisting the tourniquet she had so carefully pulled tight against her feelings for him. Part of her, after what Snape had put her through over her cheating, wanted to revel in having the moral high ground again. That part, she suspected, was one of the qualities that had placed her in Gryffindor, or had been nurtured by it. But it was a very small part and took only an instant to shove down.

Hermione made herself reach out and run a hand down the arm whose sleeve hid the Mark. He started at her touch, as if a painful shock coursed through him at the contact.

She dropped her hand but stood her ground. If she had qualms still, she'd just have to make herself push past them. Because looking at Snape, she couldn't believe he had made peace with what he'd done decades ago, and she wasn't about to facilitate his self-flagellation. Right now he looked like he was hugging to himself his own personal Dementor.

"I don't know that it is our place to forgive, but if your friend died because he, in the end, fought … You-Know-Who … I think he knew the price he could pay, and I think he'd have long considered your debt paid and more by what you've done since to carry on his fight."

Blaise relaxed beside her, as if her words had released him too. She was feeling relieved herself, especially seeing Snape's face as he took in her words, for once not pushing her away.

Snape's voice was rough, like fur rubbed the wrong way. "Knowing him, you might be right at that." The gaze he turned on her was dull and flat. "But that doesn't excuse it."

"No, it just makes you a man with a heavy debt who seems determined to pay it three times over. But in both our cases with you, the debt is on our side, and I'm not about to forget it." She heard the conviction in her voice, as if she had at last convinced herself.

She didn't expect things to be immediately fine, thought it would be weeks, if that, before they felt the same ease they had built before Snape's revelation. But then, she'd heard that bones mend stronger where there'd been a break. Maybe in time that would be true of them, too.

Both Hermione and Blaise waited quietly after the lesson for Snape to take the lead, not moving until he did, helping to straighten papers and put back chairs from where they'd moved them to the sides of the room. They guarded Snape like two sentinels as he got ready to leave, then followed him out the door, Hermione only parting to go up to Gryffindor Tower, Blaise giving her a nod that told her he wouldn't leave Snape alone until they reached Slytherin quarters.

o0o

Hermione glanced up from her seat in the Great Hall to see clouds obscure the stars in the skies mirrored on the spelled ceiling. They'd had their first snowfall this week, and she didn't find it much warmer inside Hogwarts, especially when it came to Ron or Snape. Despite Hermione's and Blaise's efforts, Snape seemed more withdrawn during the last few weeks, and that worried her. She wasn't sure how much was due to what had happened between them all and how much was due to Snape's other "responsibilities."

She shuddered. She had seen Snape limping down a corridor the other night and couldn't approach him because another student walked down the corridor crossing theirs. Dumbledore's seat at the staff table had sat empty for weeks. What Harry had related after his last session with the Headmaster, about Riddle as a child—his burgeoning powers and megalomania—had been fascinating. Still, she wasn't sure what the point of these glimpses into Riddle's background was, or what Dumbledore was doing when he was away.

Hermione looked across at the Slytherin table. Malfoy's skin appeared so translucent he looked a fitting boyfriend for Moaning Myrtle. He'd missed several classes lately. She almost felt sorry for Malfoy. Blaise, two seats down, next to Bulstrode, ate his dinner with as little relish as Hermione.

So many parts of herself felt split as a result of Dumbledore's assignment to her. Parts she could share only with Blaise, parts she could share only with Snape—if he would let her—parts only with Harry and parts only with Ron—if he hadn't been half of Lav-Won. There was nobody she could share all of her problems with.

And just about no part she could share with her parents, though she had begun to write them longer letters. With her mother, she had tried alluding to problems she was having with a "friend" in the most general terms possible. Months ago she had told them in one of her letters that Dumbledore had assigned her to help Snape with research, and that he "wasn't so bad." She imagined trying to explain to her parents how she had been coming to feel about Snape and inwardly cringed. Little wonder if Snape felt trepidation over going beyond student and teacher, even if it were only friendship.

Then, as was happening more often in spite of her best resolutions, she couldn't keep from stealing a look at the staff table. Snape seemed to be more toying with the food on his plate than eating it. His robes hung on him, as if he'd lost more weight lately. But then she had never known him to look well, let alone happy.

Hermione watched from one end of the Gryffindor table as Harry sat at the other end with Ron. Harry shot her a guilty look. Poor sod was alternating days, sometimes meals, between them. She really should make it easier for him, but every time she glanced at Ron with Lavender she seethed with loathing for them both and knew acting nicely to either of them for Harry's sake was impossible.

Lavender paused as she passed Hermione and peered down at her book, which surprised her, because who knew Lavender would spend one extra minute with the written word? Other than _Witch Weekly_, of course.

Lavender smirked. "Looks riveting."

"_Advanced Arithmancy_." She held the book out like garlic to a vampire and felt pleased when Lavender duly flinched back.

"You should try a romance or two," Lavender said, simpering, "that's the only place where you'll find romance—between the pages of a book."

"Oooh, Lavender, so glad to give you the opportunity to display your wit. How long did it take you to think that up?" Hermione leaned forward. "Jealous I've gone with someone out of the pimple stage?" She regretted her remark as soon as she saw Lavender's smug look. The girl sauntered over to sit next to Ron. She giggled and whispered in his ear. Ron glared back at Hermione. _Brilliant, Hermione, that's the way to widen the breach. What have I ever done to her other than breathe? Why does Lavender hate me so very much?_ Given Lavender's love of Divination, she'd probably say it was in the stars.

Neville then sat down beside her. He gave a nervous glance at the pair at the other end, and a start when Lavender nipped at Ron's ear, then turned to Hermione. "Have you tried the roast beef? It's super," he said, his voice ending in a squeak.

"Same roast beef. Same potatoes. Same everything. It's always delicious," she said, not able to take her eyes off Ron and Lavender. Groping for her fork, she knocked it to the floor. She bent to pick it up, but it had fallen under the table. Sighing, she crawled underneath, and felt her stomach churn when she saw Lavender's hand fondling Ron's not-so-manly bits. Rising quickly, she banged her head against the table, then dizzily dragged herself back to her seat.

"Pumpkin juice?" Neville asked a bit too brightly, pouring her a cup as if it were the answer to all woes.

Hermione turned at the giggles behind her.

Draco Malfoy stood there with Pansy Parkinson. "Don't fret, Granger," Malfoy said, "I'm sure you'll find another girlfriend someday as lovely as Lavender."

Hermione resolutely turned to her meal. Neville's face turned a tomato red. He seemed about to rise, and she didn't like how he was clenching his wand hand, so she clamped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Let the hot air waft over. It's cold enough in the Hall." She regretted her recent sympathy for Malfoy. Some Slytherins might not be snakes after all but … _I can't hex Malfoy. I can't hex Lavender. I can't hex Ron. I won't._

Looking at Hermione, Lavender picked that moment to say something to Ron. He started laughing uproariously and didn't stop. When Harry frowned and stood up and left, that confirmed to Hermione the joke was at her expense. She was halfway across to the Hufflepuff table before quite being aware of what she was going to do.

"Smith." She bit her lip. She'd thought to give Ron a taste of his own medicine. Smith was _perfect_—the best choice—given Smith's past and very public commentary on Ron's Quidditch prowess.

Zacharias Smith scowled up at her. "What are you doing at our table? Shouldn't you be with your Gryffs?"

"That matters? I thought Hufflepuffs were keen on school unity? All for one and one for all."

"I think you're getting us mixed up with the Musketeers. Besides, I'm not the usual Hufflepuff."

"I'll say," Hermione muttered and turned away. She couldn't summon up any liking or sympathy for Smith at all, and somehow she found she couldn't quite be so cold as to invite him to Slughorn's Christmas party knowing that.

Hermione scanned the hall. Who would Ron despise most? A Slytherin. But even for a good cause—and right now Ron's comeuppance seemed right up there with house-elf freedom, a lycanthropy cure, and world peace—she couldn't imagine stomaching a Slytherin other than Blaise. Besides, given Blaise's fears about her invitation, she could just imagine the cry of "ewwww Mudblood" if she tried, say Nott—or, Merlin forbid, Malfoy.

Looking back at the Gryffindor table, she spied McLaggen. She smiled tightly, remembering Ron's taunt weeks ago that she should hook up with McLaggen and they could be King and Queen Slug. That would serve Ron right.

She felt guilty for a moment, thinking of how she'd cheated McLaggen out of his fair chance at the trials, then seeing Lavender finger comb Ron's hair, she wondered what the harm would be. Maybe if she learned more about McLaggen, got to know him better, she could find a way to make things up to him for what she had done, make amends. Maybe he wasn't the complete arse he seemed if a person got to know him better. She'd discovered more to Snape and Blaise than had met the eye after all. Could she expect less of a Gryffindor?

Striding down back to the Gryffindor table, she tapped McLaggen on the shoulder and gestured at the empty seat beside him. "This seat taken?"

o0o

When she entered Snape's office later that night, she found an empty classroom and a scroll with her name on it propped up by a book on the desk. The scroll unrolled at her touch.

_Go through to my personal potions lab. I have projects that I won't put off indefinitely just because you two are always underfoot. Simultaneously push in the two copies of Advanced Potions-Making on the left end of the 3rd shelf._

_SS_

Hermione passed through the door that appeared and seeing Snape alone working by a cauldron, indulged herself by watching him a while unnoticed. She found nothing more attractive than someone doing a task masterfully, from playing a piano to, little as she'd concede it to the boys, playing Quidditch. There was grace and power in the precision and speed of the movement of Snape's gloved hands, whether in stirring a cauldron or chopping ingredients. The fierce concentration on his face suited his angular features and smoothed out the sneers and scowls that were his habitual expression.

His hair was tied back and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing sinewy forearms—and his Dark Mark. Snape had to be working on a crucial potion that could be easily contaminated for him to be willing to take measures that so exposed him.

Silver fumes rose up from the cauldron, forming a funnel shape, and she could smell the lemony scent from where she stood by the door. On the counter she spied the reason why he wore the thin, skin-tight gloves: A gallon container of violet hood-shaped flowers, borne mostly in clusters with spike-like dark green leaves and dark-coloured tapering roots: aconite, also known as Wolfsbane—highly poisonous. She recognised this as a tricky stage of the Wolfsbane Potion she'd only read about but had never seen made, so just stood quietly at the door until he finished adding the crushed petals and sliced roots to the mixture, gave three stirs in a complicated pattern, and placed a stasis spell upon the brew.

He slumped when he finished, his breathing laboured. Sweat beaded on his face. When he looked up and saw her at the door, his reaction was a scowl, his greeting a glare. "Haven't you fucked with McLaggen enough?"

Taken aback at his words, she flinched. She'd never known Snape to use such language with a student.

Scowling at her, he turned his sleeves back down, then donned his frock coat before striding to the door to face her. He crossed his arms, and the stern gesture together with his austere black garb made him look like some Puritan preacher about to rain down fire and brimstone on her. Or, more likely, if he could think of a reason, take off points. "I saw you together at dinner tonight."

Her face heated. "It's not like that."

"Right. Because, of course, I can't recognise vengeful and spiteful behaviour when I see it, and befriending McLaggen has nothing to do with getting back at Ronald Weasley."

"It's not just that. You know I feel terrible about what I did, and maybe …" His glare pressed down on her like a physical weight, making it hard to get out any words. "You don't know what it's like. To have someone you care about, one of your best friends, take up with someone you despise, who despises you, just out of spite."

Snape's face grew tight. "Certainly not."

His closed expression and the coldness in his voice made her suddenly think the opposite. In the end, she knew so little of Snape.

Walking away from her, he opened and shut cabinets with a slam, searching for something. The longer he stalked about not looking or speaking to her, the more nervous she grew. She was reminded of his manner during their argument over the trials and a flutter began at the pit of her stomach that seemed to leap up and cause a lump in her throat. "It's just … Lavender and Ron both … they're doing"—her face grew hot—"everything they can to …"

"Belittle you? I'm not oblivious. But regardless of how much you'd like to make it up to McLaggen"—he sneered—"going out with him will only show them how much they're getting to you." He gave one drawer a loud slam that made her start.

Gazing at his stiff pose, she worried her lower lip. He seemed to be taking this personally, and she could guess why. She couldn't count the number of times Ron and Harry had belittled Snape, and he must have heard more from others. And she couldn't fix that. An apology, an admission of her realisation wouldn't be taken well in his mood. She tried to shift the conversation before their still fragile new rapprochement could get torn to bits. "Where's Blaise?"

He stared at her a few moments, then to her relief seemed to accept the change of subject. "Mr Zabini will be delayed. The Headmaster is back, at least for the next few days, and with the holidays approaching, I thought it wise to get Zabini tested by the strongest Legilimens I know."

"What? That's not you?"

"Unlike you, Miss Granger, I acknowledge my limitations, temporary though they might be. The better to know what I still have left to learn. I dare say if Mr Zabini can keep Albus Dumbledore from rummaging through his mind at will, not even the Dark Lord would be a challenge."

"Does that mean he's finished with Occlumency lessons?"

A strange expression passed over Snape's face. "There are still techniques that would be valuable if you're trying to deceive, not simply shield."

Hermione could imagine why Snape didn't seem happy about Blaise mastering techniques that would allow his charge to follow in his footsteps. She searched for a way to change the subject. "Why so many flowers? The potion doesn't keep."

"I'm experimenting with creating a more stable variant. You prepare the potion to almost the finalised stage. When needed, you can take the intermediate out of stasis, and the last touches are so simple first-year dunderheads could possibly manage."

She forced a smile. She recognised that if it worked, Wolfsbane Potion could be made more easily and cheaply, making it widely available to help many more. Still, she wondered why Snape chose to spend time on this now. She worried he was trying to make himself unnecessary, like a dying man tying up loose ends. She had never forgotten her promise to herself to research the curse on the D.A.D.A. position, and with December here—and almost half the school year gone—she was beginning to feel dread about her lack of progress.

"Can I help with the Wolfsbane Potion?"

He snorted. "Maybe in ten years I'd trust you with the brew." She opened her mouth to object, and he waved a gloved hand at her. "Three Potions Masters in all of Europe can brew Wolfsbane Potion—and I'm the youngest by several decades—but you think I should let you have a go before taking your NEWTs?" He sneered. "Not likely. But if you want to observe some of the basics and help, you can get me some more Boomslang skin from the storeroom. The password is 'flobberworms.' I believe you're intimately familiar with where all the ingredients are."

Hermione flushed at his knowing look. Snape apparently did know exactly who had raided his storeroom four years ago.

"You, at least, wouldn't be a waste of ingredients to try to teach. Polyjuice in your second year?" He tapped his lips with a finger. "Trust you with an open storeroom however …"

She beamed at the compliment buried in the sarcasm, and was still grinning when she reached the storeroom. More than just the compliment, the very fact he was teasing her showed he wasn't as angry about McLaggen as she'd feared. The return of their rapport filled her with a warm glow.

When she cast _Lumos_, she saw a fat maroon spider scuttling along the shelves. She felt an icy finger run down her spine when she noted the markings on the body—two black curving half-moons, like a moustache.

Hermione had seen a spider with those distinctive markings in the broomshed this past summer at the Burrow. She'd remembered the spider because it was so unlike its brethren, and because Ron, with his fear of spiders, had always made her the one to go into the shed to get the brooms. She thought of Skeeter, who also had unique markings on her beetle body.

She pointed her wand at the spider, and it scurried away—as if it knew Hermione meant business. That decided her. Slamming the door to ensure the spider couldn't escape, she then grabbed an empty jar by the door. Whirling about, she tried to spot where the spider had gone, only to see it skittering deeper into the storeroom. Tucking her wand under her arm so she could untwist the jar's lid, she chased the spider to a far corner. She managed to bring down the jar on the creature, then flipped the jar back up to shut the lid, but underestimated the speed of the creature.

Hermione felt a sharp jab on her finger and yelped as the jar slipped from her hands, shattering on the tiled floor. She cursed her clumsiness and that her first instinct had been to do things the Muggle way when all she'd had to do was _Stupefy_ the creature with her wand. As she stared at the red welt on her swelling finger, her vision began to blur. Feeling dizzy, she leaned against the wall for support, but slid down to the floor.

Her cry for help sounded tiny to her own ears, a mewing sound. Ringing filled her ears. Despite fighting to stay conscious, her eyes closed.

Seeing herself in front of a classroom, she looked down to find her body altered and clad in black. The edges of her vision rippled and blurred. She could pace back and forth, but she'd open her mouth to speak and nothing came out. Looking out into the classroom, she saw the same five people filling every seat. Harry was there, and he was laughing at her. His eyes shifted from brown to green and back. Ron sat by Harry's side. As she watched, his hair darkened and his features morphed into an unlined, boyish version of Sirius' face. Among the students, she first saw herself, then Remus' form. Neville's face and form changed to that of a young Pettigrew.

The fifth figure never shifted though. A red-headed girl just stared back with green eyes, and Hermione could hear her repeating "Snivellus," over and over.

Hermione looked at the highly polished desk and instead of her own reflection, saw Snape's face. Only he had red eyes.

Before she could take in more, her surroundings began to shift, cycling in and out between scenes and images, faster and faster, changing more quickly than she could process, then for a while a vision would unfold more slowly, giving her time to make out details. She saw Dumbledore dead at her feet, then Harry, then she stared down at her own bloodied form and started to weep.

She heard Snape's voice calling out from beyond her visions, low and urgent, felt fingers prying open her mouth, placing a bitter round object on her tongue and ordering her to swallow. Hermione couldn't make her body obey, and then she felt hands on her throat, stroking it, forcing those muscles to work.

She swallowed.

Minutes later her eyes flew open. She was propped up against the shelves, and Snape knelt beside her. His face was a ghastly colour. He still had one hand supporting her head, and she could feel as well as see the tremors rippling through his frame before he shakily let go and sat down. She smiled at him, and he took a quick, deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

He swallowed. "You were gone so long. When Zabini got back from the Headmaster, we came looking for you. I sent him to get Madam Pomfrey. Your finger. It looked stung. I always carry a bezoar on me, so I took a chance."

Her bitten finger throbbed and her head ached, but despite that, she sat up straight, started to get up, but his hand shot out and pushed her back down. "You will not move until the Matron gets here and checks you out fully."

"You don't understand. A spider bit me, and I think it was an Animagus. Squat, bigger than the usual house spider, about half the length of my palm, _very_ distinct markings." As Hermione described the spider and the actions she thought indicated its intelligence to Snape, he drew in a breath, and he looked increasingly grim, the lines of his face more deeply etched.

Embarrassed to discuss with him scenes that involved him so intimately, she averted her gaze as she began describing her visions. Stealing looks at him from time to time, she tried gauging his reaction. She did her best to recall every detail. He frowned as she described finding herself in a classroom clad in his habitual garb and those she'd seen seated in front of her. His expression grew stony, and he seemed to brace himself. When, stumbling over her words, she told him about hearing him called "Snivellus," he only nodded stiffly. Nothing she related seemed to surprise him. His face relaxed a bit when she told him some images had blurred past too quickly for her to make out, but he flinched when she described seeing her dead body. "What was I seeing?"

"My nightmares," he said hoarsely. He paused, a pensive look in his eyes, before he grunted and said, "The creature must have been somehow lifting them off the Dream Catcher." He slumped against the shelves beside her, staring out into the middle distance for some moments, before looking back at her. "How, and if it can ordinarily transfer them after it returns to human form, I don't know. But I know one thing. He—or she—can't have any doubt of where my loyalties lie after such visions."

She grasped his hand, gripping it more feebly then she'd like. He began to pull his hand away, but relented when she squeezed tighter, trying to hang on to his. "You can't go back then—"

"Don't be an idiot. We don't have any choice." He ran his free hand through his hair. "Besides, if this were one of the Dark Lord's followers, I'd already be dead." He looked at her face and her terror for him must have showed. He squeezed her hand. "I'll be _very_ careful."

"Whoever it was may not have had time to report—"

He shook his head. "I've seen the creature you've described for months."

Shivering with dread, she needed more reassurance than their clasped hands provided for her. She shifted a bit so their shoulders touched and felt anchored by his solid warmth.

"Rest," he said, "Poppy will be here soon."

On his face, she could see his exhaustion and concern, and when his eyes met hers, his expression softened. She hoped he drew a little comfort from their contact, too. They both needed it.

o0o

**to be continued**

**A/N**. Supposedly no venomous spiders are indigenous to Britain. However, note this article in BBC News, **"Venomous spiders nest near Queen's home"**. Besides—the spider in this chapter is a Magical Creature—so please don't write me reviews Brit-picking this point. OK?

This is the first chapter written post-publication of _Deathly Hallows_, which has now rendered this tale hopelessly alternate universe. I intend to finish _Book of Shadows_, though I may use _Deathly Hallow_ elements, and in future chapters even change _Half-Blood Prince_ events. With the series over and the events revealed in the last book not quite fitting, we're now in the wild—anything can happen.

FFN does not allow answers to reviews on author's notes, and I'm reluctant to respond by email when that's not how the reviews were sent. That doesn't mean I don't greatly appreciate every review.


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